


A Tale of Iron and Wolf; Healing Brokenness

by beauty_love_stardust



Series: A Tale of Wolf and Iron [2]
Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Altered Mental States, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Angst and Fluff and Smut, Disassociation, Eventual Happy Ending, F/M, Falling In Love, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Hurt/Comfort, Fluff and Smut, Graphic Description, Healing, Healing Sex, Heavy Angst, Idiots in Love, Implied Ramsay Bolton/Theon Greyjoy, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Love, Love Confessions, Loyalty, Lust, Marriage Proposal, Mental Anguish, Mental Breakdown, Mental Instability, Multiple Personalities, Mutilation, Nudity, Past Abuse, Past Ramsay Bolton/Theon Greyjoy, Past Rape/Non-con, Past Torture, Poor Theon, Psychological Torture, Rape Aftermath, Rape Recovery, Rape/Non-con Elements, Rough Kissing, Rough Sex, Sansa-centric, Semi-Public Sex, Sex, Theon-centric, Torture, True Love, Unconventional Relationship, Vaginal Fingering
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-06
Updated: 2019-09-10
Packaged: 2020-02-27 02:55:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 43
Words: 111,806
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18730297
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beauty_love_stardust/pseuds/beauty_love_stardust
Summary: Once, He might have been a whole man, and she a whole woman. Now they are broken...and she intends to rectify what she can in him.





	1. Part 1; For Iron to Bend to a Wolf.

**Author's Note:**

> I have read a great deal of Theon/Sansa fiction, but never seen anyone explore a post-mutilation take on Theon's potential for sexual sensations after he is tortured. Some men can still feel, and gain pleasure after a mutilation, and I decided to explore it a bit. If this at all offends you, I urge you not to continue. There will also be quite a bit of exploration with the darker events that transpired in Sansa, and Theon's timeline. As well as quite a bit of angst/fall out between them. I do promise it will end happily, as well as explore lighter themes throughout, but if you are easily triggered, then you should avoid this work at all costs.

_**Part 1; For Iron to Bend to a Wolf.** _

 

> * * *
> 
> _  
> Our brokenness has no other_
> 
> _beauty but the beauty that_
> 
> _comes from the compassion_
> 
> _that surrounds it_

* * *

 

 

Nights were cold; dark. Every flicker of candle flame, each shadow on the wall, kept her eyes opened. Skin pale as ice, laid silent underneath the familiarity of her furs. Yet, still there was a flicker of fear. A reckoning within the depths of her tortured soul.

Sansa felt stripped, flayed of all humanity by the sickening flesh of Ramsay. Once, she might have believed only Joffrey could be so cruel. So unthinkably hellish.

How wrong she had been.

She had not tasted the seven hells until she met Ramsay. Felt each mark seared into her flesh. Sobbed herself to sleep as night fell. Then there was Theon. Once full of himself. Then, reduced into the blubbering shell of Reek. Now returned; a ghost of Theon Greyjoy.

Once, the kindly ward of her Father. (at least toward her.)

And savior of her life.

Unable to retain the façade, she heard the whisper of trees. Scrape of branches against the walls of Winterfell, and she flinched. As a young girl, she had crawled into the warm furs of her eldest brother’s bedcoverings. Laid in complacent, silence in his arms. Had any known they would have mistaken them for lovers. With Robb, it had only been for her comfort.

Until this nightmare she could not seem to awaken from, began.

But the nightmare was at an end. Winterfell was Jon’s now. Ramsay was dead. Gone. Fed to the dog’s he so loved to lord over others.

Yet, it was the comforting warmth of Robb’s arms she sought out. Aimlessly desired. But could no longer have. That complicit innocence of belief that none could ever hurt her, because her eldest kin would die for her. And he had.

May the Gods show mercy—Robb had perished for her.

Still, the need for a warm body to feel safe, refused to permit her rest. Throwing aside the covers, warm feet met the cold of stone. Padding across she flung open the door. Theon stood guard just outside.

A slight startle was made on his part. Bloodshot eyes bore into hers, they softened as he seemed to recall where he was (who he was) and that he remained safe. Ramsay could no longer touch his broken skin.

“My Lady.” Theon felt responsible. Of that she was nearly certain.

“Come inside my chambers.” Spoken like a command, her slanted eyes held his. Gave nothing away. No telling what spies might lurk within even Winterfell walls—even now.

“My Lady—I do not think—”

“Come.”

As though a switch flicked—He obeyed.

Once safely inside, she gave a quick survey of the halls. Then clicked the door shut in silence. Hand on his sword’s scabbard, Theon met her gaze for only a moment, realizing she was his better; he glanced down. Suddenly intrigued by the cracks in the stone.

He did not speak. And she felt sympathy in the pit of her stomach for the brokenness he endured. Oh, but she still recalled nestling near to him for warmth in the cusp of the forest. Just like with Robb.

“I wish you no harm, Theon.” Her thumb brushed the stubble upon his cheek. Reminded that he was still a flesh, blood man. Even without his most prized part.

He made no move to flinch away. Instead, his back became rigid.

“What is it you do wish, My lady?”

“Sansa.” She corrected. “We are equals you, and I. Both broken by the same man. Both half souls that roam this mortal coil.”

It was apparent—he could not disagree.

“I desire a companion. In my bed.” Bright pink spread to chiseled cheeks. Wide eyes beseeched her not to ask this.

“I do not understand, My L—Sansa.” He corrected, rapidly.

“Not many know this, but Robb would offer me a space in his bedchambers. I would curl tight to his side. Know comfort in the warmth. Only you, I can trust to understand. Only you, I wish to fulfill my need.” Her voice did not tremble. Nor crack. But held so little emotion. “I see how you stare. How you have always stared. Even before Ramsay—”

She cut herself off. He lowered his gaze.

“I cannot.”

“I would have you do me this kindness.” His head dipped in respect. And he made no more protests. He stood stoic. Nimble fingers unlatched the rawhide leather of his belt. Let his sword clatter to the floor.

“I am not a man. Not anymore.” He persisted, but she paid him no mind.

“I wish to see. I wish to look upon your shame. As I wish you to look upon mine—”

“There is no shame in what you survived, Sansa.”

“Nor what you have.” She countered.

He flinched. But succumbed. Still, the touch of soft woman’s hands on the bareness of his chest, (once his tunic was shed) burned the space where he once was limber. Thick with need. Lustful. Those soft padded things dragged over scars. Raised over his chest. Ribs. Abdomen.

“My Lady…”

“Sansa.” She corrected once more.

With careful precision she unlaced the ties of his breeches. Shame overtook him, it was potent. Always meant to be a piece of him. Severed deep inside. Still, only they could understand. Only he could ever understand what she endured. The pieces Ramsay cut into on her. What he took with his knife from her. Dignity. Any remaining remnants of trust.

With the last tie unlaced. She gave one final glance upon his half-darkened features, then let his breeches fall at his feet. Curious—horrified—eyes witnessed the remnants of Theon’s once proud, prick.

Balls removed, only a stub remained. Less than an inch long. Only a small rounded protrusion from directly beneath his pelvis. A slit twice the size of a cock-end’s must be where he urinated from. His skin pink, clearly smooth the same way a woman’s inner cunt lips were. There was enough of him that remained, only to hold between a thumb, and index finger. Where the skin had been sawed apart, was uneven. Leaving jagged (albeit soft) skin behind. Curious questions arose. Was he numb? Could he still feel the cravings of a man, without any way to relieve them? Or had he never attempted to?

Reaching out, he sucked in a breath at the contact of her fingers. Goosepimples arose as he shuddered, but did not speak.

As promised, Sansa unlaced her nightgown. Opened the ties, then permitted the fabric to cascade to her feet. Pooling at her ankles.

It was her turn to refuse to meet his eye. Her breasts held burns, slits where a blade had torn skin. Her stomach was littered as well. And worst of all—her cunt. Scars he might not see, but were there nonetheless.

“Lay down.” She instructed. He complied without question. Laid atop the pelts, he had no reason to hide now. She saw the worst of his shame.

She climbed astride him. Kissed the chapped roughness of his lips with the silkiness of hers. She could all but imagine the lapse in time since Theon had been intimate with a proper female. He reacted as one might expect a male to. Tongue pushed past the barrier of her lips, sought entrance into her mouth. Rough, calloused hands felt her up, as though forgetting himself.

Finally, they broke apart. Panting together.

“If it is my humiliation you desire, you have it.” He offered.

“Not your humiliation. Never that.” They both had endured enough of humiliation to surpass their lifetimes.

“Can you still…Do you feel…down there I mean?”

His jaw tightened, “I still burn with lusts, Sansa. Such will never depart from me. Nor any man who has known the tight heat of a woman’s cunt.”

Sorrow encapsulated her vision. Without hesitation, she climbed from astride his lap. “Lay still.” Another order. He obeyed.

Lowering her digits, she met the stub. Pad of her index began slow circles around the soft flesh. Shock urged her forward, when an almost inhuman grunt collected in his throat. Quick to clench his eyes shut—she proceeded. Slow, meaningful circles around what was once the base of his elongated meat.

“Have you touched since...” She searched his features, uncertain whether he might lie.

“N-No.” The word came out as a stutter. So akin to that of Reek, she paused. Was this causing detriment?

“I burn, Sansa. You’ve no idea how much.”

Rather than pleas for her discontinuance, there was the opposite. So, she gave counter circles to the sensitive stump. She witnessed him wither. Arc his back in a perfect arch, to find further friction against slender fingers.

“So, you can feel?” It was geared as more a statement than a question.

Only a moan was punctuated in response. Red fiery color scorched the white skin of his cheeks. A sign of mortification.

Soft, feather-light petals met his pulse-point. “You may touch me, Theon. I do not fear **your** touch.”

Timid at first; he brushed the curve of one supple breast. Thumbed her nipple, gave another moan as she found a particularly sensitive patch of his stub. Most of the nerves down there must be dead—but some remained. Enough to rouse for.

Intentionally, she rubbed over the sensitive spot. Flicked with her index, and was rewarded with his touch to her cheek, drawing her face forward to capture her petals.

Another torrid kiss passed between them. Exploring her mouth, broiling with heat. She could feel it; his heat.

Whenever, Robb would invite her within his bedchambers, they would lay bare. Press warm parts together, until morning came to call. Never, was it sexual. Just an understanding. A need to feel whole, together. Leave no secrets between them. With Theon, she desired the same transparency. No secrets. No shame.

And so, she claimed it.

No more words fell, as he tied her tongue with his. Pushed riled hips up to meet delicate fingers. He could not bed her, the way a man was meant to bed a woman. But there was mutual respect between them. Understanding she had not shared with any other man. Except Robb.

And though there was shame hovering around him—there was also pleasure. Broiling hot pleasure. His stub pulsed to life under firm pressure from her fingers. Blood rushed to fill the length it was once used to occupying.

Pulsing, swollen, the ruined scarred tissue left behind, turned hard with the pressure of forced blood. Protruding from his apex, she witnessed his body’s attempt to succumb to what was once, normal.

“P-Please…” She knew not what he might plead for. Her to finish him? Or let him alone?

She decided the former. Steadily, straddling his lower hips. Replacing her index finger, with her warm, wet cunt. Pressed right down on the erect little stub, the sound that protruded from his throat was inhuman. Strangled.

She silenced him with a kiss. Rolled her hips in tight little circles. Made certain his stub brushed her own swollen button with each pass.

Tremors began to wrack his frame. Kisses turned harsher; fingers needier, as he reached for any space on her form he could ravage. It was in his blood to rape. Take as he pleased. Yet, still he was subtly hesitant.

“I may not be able to permit you the ability to rut inside a woman again, but I can oblige your burn to feel one.” Whispers tickled his lips. Fingers cupped either cheek, thumbing his stubble with mild flicks.

“S-Sansa—”

Cognizant speech was lost to Theon. And so she swallowed his moans without hesitance. Rode atop his waist until she pulsed with desire. Burned with the same lust as he must.

Having succumbed to the touch of his calloused hands in full, she throbbed in unison with him. Both their moans melded together in rising pleasure. Until—It burst.

Whines that sounded purely animal, parted wet lips, as the swollen stub pulsed as he finished. Though he throbbed, there was no seed to be spilled. Only aches to be satiated. His burning ache.

She came apart, seconds after. Collapsed on his chest, nudged her nose into the crook of his neck as their eager lips broke apart. Suckling up the column of his neck—she preened in satisfaction as the swell of his stub dissipated back to flaccid scar tissue.

She stilled. Nestled alongside of him. Wrapped around the curve of his arm. Listening to the pulse of his heart with each rapid, beat.

Once the thrill dissipated, shame flooded his face. She recognized it on every shadowed edge. Every curve.

“Jon will have my life for this, Sansa.” Stunned that it is he, that broke the silence, sleepy eyes peer up.

Not for the first time, it is her heart that breaks for Theon. The agony that monstrous Bolten bastard put him through. His fear of men, of intentions. Did he not see that they were two halves of the same battered coin? One shell? One oasis? That she harbored those same fears of men too, until tonight?

“He would not dare lay a hand upon you.” Gentle reassurance departed her petals.

One tear, made a wet trail down reddened skin upon his cheek. He was silent.

Turning his cheek with warm fingers—their eyes meet.

“I promise.”

“He will, My L—Sansa.” Hopelessness, dulls his eyes. “I have brought shame to you this night. Touched what I’ve no right to. He will have my head, since there ain’t nothing else left.”

“You haven’t. I ordered you to my bed. And he need never know. But should he come to know of this, I shall tell him that I need you. That you alone can possibly understand what I feel.”

“You are wrong. We are not equals, I can never be an equal again. Ramsay took everything from me. My cock, my name. **Everything**.”

“Not everything, Theon. Not me.” Low grazes upon the stump, caused a harsh intake of air. Green pooled optics clenched shut. Rasps escaped full lungs.

“D-Don’t.” The faint traces of touch, retracted.

Stickiness of her thigh, met with the divot of his hip, as she slung it over his side. Let him benefit from sheer heat, built in their moment of rife.

“I owe you my life, Theon. As long as I breathe air, I will protect you. No man, especially not Jon, will ever seek to harm you, again.”

“You cannot promise such things. No one can.”

“I just have.” Her words left no question.

They plunged into silence for a good long while. Each breathing in steady rhythms. Listening to the sounds that struck fear in her, not long ago—now were akin to nuisance. Nothing more.

“I recall as a boy, you would chase after me, on these lands. Attempt to bunch up my skirts when you succeeded in a tackle or two. Do you remember, Theon?” A long winding silence stretched out. The sound of a ‘hooting’ owl in the night the only sound, apart from his breath.

“I remember.” A barely audible response, incurred.

“I used to be so mad, that you muddied my newly sewn dresses. And so often I would feel your cock, poke me when you had me pinned. But I never took into account that you might harbor affections for me.”

The muscle in his jaw twitched. “None of that matters now. What is past is past.” He defended. “I am no longer a man. I may carry my title, my name, but those formalities will never return what truly makes me a man, to me.”

“Perhaps not, but you are still a man in my eyes. And I do not require you to fill me, in order to be content. I do not wish for any other man to touch me, Theon. What I desire above all else—is you.”

Slowly, she sought out every mark that filled his belly with shame—and kissed. Chest. Shoulder. Abdomen—anywhere Ramsay left scars. Imperfections. Blemishes.

He winced, each time.

“I would have you for a husband, Theon. Will you have me?”

Shock, etched into his eyes. And risen breaths fell silent. As did he.

Time stopped.


	2. Part 2; To Sever Right and Wrong.

**_Part 2; To Sever Right and Wrong._ **

 

* * *

 

> _Mercy has a cost…_
> 
> _Someone must be broken_
> 
> _for someone else to be fed._

 

* * *

 

 

_Theon_

Each day, existing was more difficult than the previous one. Time would slow; then speed. Counting—it was how he remembered. Remembered his name. One. Two. Three. –Theon Greyjoy. Another three. –Ironborn. Another three, yet. –Reek is dead—he died with Ramsay.

And Sansa. If counting failed; Sansa pulled him back. Back to reality. Back to the Earth—the sky. Just back. From darkness. Where he existed as Reek. Where his mind departed.

Fiery, scarlet tresses of hair. Tully-blue eyes. Flush, pink lips. Tempting as the gods to claim—and yet. Always; Always he counted—remembered—One. Two. Three. –No longer a true man. Unworthy of beauty. Of light.

Until, tonight.

Tonight, she ordered him. He obeyed.

Like a moth to a flame—he could not disobey the light when it called. Sansa was the light. And she had called for him.

Now; with pleasure, he long thought lost to him forever (so much so he was even afraid to attempt self-pleasure) passed. With the object of lifelong affections nestled in the crook of his arm—it all hit him.

Returned; ten-fold.

Unworthiness. Less than dirt. Memories of time spent nestled in the kennels with the hounds, returned. In filth, hay, enclosure. Fear struck his heart. Just like that—he was there again. Reek. Helpless. Unable, even to bathe. The reek had never left his scent—not in all that time. Piss. Shit. Hounds. So many mingled stenches. And somehow, Sansa found worthiness in him.

Mercy, and the distinct possibility for redemption.

But, this?

“N-No. I cannot.” Marriage? No longer was he a man. Barely human. Barely alive.

He could not refuse her. Not when she required one night of silent, sin. But a lifetime?

The jests that would be thrust upon them if he wed her. If he stood before the old gods—and vowed to cherish her? Be the thing that makes her whole? How could he? When he could never be whole?

Barren, emptiness was all that encompassed the hollow in his chest. Ramsay destroyed any manhood left inside. Yet, still…Still she asked such of him?

“Why not?” Soft, but firm words, carried to his ears. Her voice like that of a hymn. Such beauty he found in her.

“You should wed a proper Lord. Not me.” Counting, helped him respond. To speak at all, with his heart pumping faster than the river ran.

Fluid strokes brushed over a scar just underneath, the ridge where his breast, ended. He all-but winced. Images of the blade, flashed in his mind. Quick, surefire cuts had been made, by the straight-edge. Trickles of scarlet had marked his chest. Left him weeping. Unconscious.

“You are a proper Lord.” She countered.

“You know what I mean.” Quick to respond; sea-green pools dared to meet Tully-blue.

“Either you shall wed me, or I will live out my days as a spinster. Would you condemn me to the life of a spinster, Theon?” Cat-like eyes, taunted his.

“Sansa—” Green eyes, closed.

One. Two. Three.

Then opened. Whilst her eyebrows quirked. “Others will jeer at our union. It is known that I can not give heirs. Jon would never permit a union between us.”

“No man shall ever again, decide who I shall marry. Do you understand? I will never be a pawn to another man’s game, ever again. Never. Do you hear me?” A curbed edge, caught in her tone.

Theon flinched. Twitched in silent timidity.

“U-Understand.” One word. All he could utter, was the one. He slid between, Reek—and Theon. Theon, and Reek. “Take what you will, My L—Sansa.” If humiliation was the price—then so he deserved to suffer it.

Imaginings could run wild, at the sheer thought of their wedding day. Stood before the old gods. Bound in lace. Quiet snickers would resound. Perhaps close. Perhaps from afar. But there was no mistake—there would be snickers. What companionship could a traitor’s daughter find in a flayed man? Where was the punchline.

Softening, plump things grazed his lips. Kissed. Lusted. Yearned. Was it touch? Warmth she might desire? Or to rut against a cock-less stump? What did she see here? What possibly?

But who was he to refuse a beauty, when she asked him for his hand? He could be a shield. A shield for her to hide behind. Dick-less, so as not to penetrate her, even as her husband. Obedient—because he could view no other way to weather a coming storm. And enraptured—by her beauty since first, he laid scared, newly minted-prisoner eyes upon her.

If she could only perceive the carnality, that suffocated him in his youth. Hormones that drove him to tackle; seek out fine-silk skirts to even touch his swollen cock to her covered apex. If she only knew. How torturous it now was, to hold—rut—kiss, when he would give anything to bury himself inside. And now, never could.

So much—he could never share. Could hardly decipher in the precipice of his own structurally unbalanced mind. Hot tears, burned his cheeks as they fell. The gods were cruel. Others had done, far worse than he—but yet the punishments would never end. Never.

Later. In the night; when insightful optics closed. When Theon was left alone with his thoughts—imbued by the heat from mere warmth of her bodice, hung close; he wept.

Not for sympathy. Nor weakness. Instead, for the absence of his soul.

 

* * *

 

 

Nights played out the same. Each night, Jon ordered his presence to guard, Sansa’s chambers. And each night; his sword clattered to the stone.  Clothes piled into neat little lumps—and he gave to her. Every pitiful moan. Each pulse of burn within his loins. Whatever chipped pieces she could gather with promising kisses, and dancing finger-pads.

He succumbed. And each night—the counting heightened.

More, and more—he separated Reek—from Theon. And Sansa’s Theon—from broken Theon.

He gave—even though no strength, remained.

Instead; there was only stifled pleasure, and white-hot severity in their actions.

Finally, the worst of all nightmares—came true.

Caught, in the throes of passionate need. Rutting up—in desperation, seeking what he so prayed he could have—yet was unattainable. Steel hinges creaked; hard-wood of the bedchamber door swung open—and there stood Jon.

Wild, fire in his bastard eyes. Sword drawn from the innards of his sheath. And Theon drawn from atop of his northern beauty. Wrenched into the curve of the stone corner. Cold stone met Theon’s back. Shrieks from Sansa were made. And blood pounded in Theon’s ears—so loud—he could hardly hear over the pulse of rushing blood.

Sword to his neck, Jon shouted at him. “Is this how you guard, Sansa? How you fulfill your duties, Greyjoy?”

Immediately—the fine tether, snapped. Counting fled; humanity fled. All else—parted. Wide terrified eyes, met Jon’s. Panic set in. This is it. This is how he would die. Naked. Shamed. With a sword to his throat. Black eyes the final thing to greet him in this life. Sniveling. His hands curled inward. Nails tore his fleshy palms they dug in so hard.

“Nothing—I’m Reek—Nothing. Unworthy—failed the test—another test. S-Sorry—I w-won’t touch h-her. N-Never—Never.” Crimson scarlet spread down gouged palms, over thin wrists.

“Jon! Let him alone!” Pushing his face into the corner—inhaling the scent of stone—he felt the cut from the sharp blade that had just touched his throat’s flesh. He fell into the corner. Absently cascaded into sobs. Detached—completely. Felt warmth between his legs. Wetness. Then blackness. Then nothing at all.

* * *

 

 

_Sansa_

 

This was her fault. No other.

Theon. Poor, sweet, Theon was encapsulated by darkness. Steadfastly, held by the clench of loyalty in his bones. And when she called—he answered.

Promised to wed her, before gods—before everyone. But her selfishness, willed him as hers for a few more nights, thereafter. Where it could be only them. No jeers. No fun to be made—just purely them. Exploring taut, marked skin. Finding common ground. Understanding in the blackness that had nearly swallowed them whole.

And she had made one promise; that was thus, unkept. To control Jon., Prevent detriment to befall Theon.

However, everything came so fast—and by the time she dealt with Jon—Theon was unconscious. Broken. Fearful.

“Please Jon! I invited him into my bed! All he has done; I have asked for. Please!” Having tugged on his sword arm, she had drawn his blade from the line of Theon’s neck.

“What?” Furious, Jon had rounded on her.

“I seduced him—I gave him no choice! Jon, look what you have done!” Jon had stepped back further, to see the weak bundle of destroyed flesh, cowering on the stone. Eyes rolled back, smelling of his own accident—then unconscious.

Jon had left—Sansa cleaned him.

Moved him with her own arms. Hoisted him upon her furs. Cleansed, soiled skin with a rag. Settled, tearfully at his bedside.

“I was selfish, Theon. I will not be selfish again. I promise.” Memories of past transgressions came to the forefront. Dalliances with darkness. The fearful glint in Theon’s eyes when she all but ordered him to her bed. The wreckage of him; when first she laid eyes upon him after so long in Ramsay’s care. How she once believed—they were the same. Parts of them were. Not all.

This is what her happiness wrought. Death. Fear. Rage.

Just as Joffrey had tormented her; so had Ramsay. Now Theon was shattered. And she was to blame. With tearful eyes; soft hands held one calloused one—and her face fell onto his chest—and she wept.

“I will never ask again. Wake for me, Theon. All I ask, is that you wake.” Jon could never understand. The glance he gave her. One of sheer disgust at her wicked whims to bed a dick-less man. She knew now—Jon would never grant her freedom to wed, Theon. And if he could not understand, the rest of the seven kingdoms would not either.

Near an hour of dutiful patience at his bedside, finally saw him open his eyes. And her back went rigid.

Tears froze on red-tinged cheeks as she waited with baited breath to see if there would be his recognition, or not.


	3. Part 3; To Succumb with Vengeance.

**_Part 3; To Succumb with Vengeance._ **

* * *

 

 

> _If you feel like_
> 
> _you’re falling apart,_
> 
> _fall into my arms._
> 
> _I promise I will catch_
> 
> _every little piece of you_
> 
> _and I promise_
> 
> _I will always love your brokenness._

 

* * *

 

 

 Theon

 

Somewhere—trapped in history—existed innocent laughter. Surefooted grace as he raced across the grasses of Winterfell. Kissed fiery red beauties that might have a close visage to that of Sansa. Rutted in secret; first in the shade of tall cusps of trees. Then in the sanctity of his chambers. Sometimes, in those sacred instances—he slipped up. Sansa’s name would slip—always her name.

And then—he would pay extra to swear them to secrecy. A knowing little smirk would befall rosy-lips, but never would it be spoken of.

Visions of the past—relinquished into dust.

Wide-eyes opened. Blurry shapes came into view—and her. Fingers clenched one newly-scarred hand. Delicate fingers brushed crescent scabbed, wounds. Suddenly—he recalled digging broken-nails into the thin skin. Pale veins on display, upon the fleshy palms.

“Theon?” Her voice cracked; trembled.

He blinked. Aware of her rounded-features. Red-swollen eyes, and heavy heart.

“San-sa…” Slow, drawn out tones emerged. Fear had fled—counting still had too—but with Sansa nearby (no sign of Jon in sight) he felt safe.

“You pleaded with me not to. But still I asked it of you, anyway. Can you forgive me, Theon?”

“Nothing to forgive—Promise…” Corrective speech felt lost on him. Reek was just below the surface of his psyche—attempting to penetrate.

“You were right, Theon. I wish I had allowed myself to listen. I wanted to have the same familiarity of my childhood. But I am not a young girl anymore. And Robb is gone. Everything I love is gone. Except for you. And I cannot force you to love me back.” Her voice traveled through the air, like whispers. Her eyes saddened, with shattered hopes.

It was his fault. He shattered those hopes. Unable to defend himself—how then could he defend her?

“I do—love you.” He fought through the barred walls of his inner-mind. Poked until he broke through. Until the truth; faltered from his lips. “I have always, loved you.”

Her eyebrows, furrowed—drawing together in a tight line. Thumb brushed the sensitive curve of his jawline. And he shuddered with sensation.

“Do you?”

He didn’t respond. Instead, extended his arm out, beckoning her to lay alongside of him. Wolfish heat, engulfed him like scorching fire when she drew near.

Reminders of everything he had ever been. Before. After. Ramsay was never far from view. Even now. When he is no longer alive, the shadow he cast would always be there. Hovering right between them. Distinctly taunting them for their weakness. Reek’s betrayal. His love for Sansa, overrode Reek’s love for Ramsay.

Plunged into silence; they laid like that, for a long time. Fire flames, crackled in the hearth. Owl’s hooted in the distant northern woods. Scents of barley, rose from the kitchens below. Night was cold; worse than only dark. Theon was used to shadows. Darkness was his home.

“What do you remember?” Sansa broke the silence.

Theon’s heart pattered, “Remember?” Confusion settled in. Crept right up his spine.

“About things. Before Ramsay—Before the war—”

Counting resumed. One. Two. Three.

Theon Greyjoy.

One. Two. Three.

Sansa Stark.

If she willed him to recall the past—this was how he delved in. It was never easy to sort through muddled histories. Scattered traces of the past. Never.

“Specifically?” He countered.

“About us?” She shed a tear. He felt it sear his skin.

His thumb grazed the point of her pulse, let her slender neck drag under his skin. Boiling hot; his belly screamed. “You used to sing. When you thought no one could hear. Out in the copse of trees, near the water’s edge. I would spy, sometimes. Listen to your tune, as you sewed new dresses. Your voice is beautiful—but you never let anyone hear.” As though from a distant plane—he answered.

“You spied?” Teasing hues found his. Brightness; light—surrounded her.

“I wanted to wed you, someday. To be your Lord, no longer a prisoner. Take you home to the Iron Islands. Put little heirs in your belly, and have entire nights by your side, where no one would bother us.” Tears made lined-streaks down his skin. Images of a life that was now unattainable to them flashed. Shame huddled in on him. Crowding his skin.

Guardedly, her eyes fell from his. Tracing fingers stilled on the bareness of his chest. Her jaw quivered. “Theon…” Her voice crackled.

“Those things can never be. What happiness, or joy could I bring you? We will be alone. Cursed with a half-life. A false marriage, and laughter from everyone who hears of it. I can only bring shame upon you. Not the life you deserve.”

 “What about what you deserve?” Formidable tones spewed from her lips. Fingers cast away the falling tears upon her cheeks. Her lips quivered in recognition.

“I deserve nothing. I am nothing, My Lady.” This time, he did not correct himself.

“You are not, nothing. But I will not force you to wed me. Nor force you to concede to me. You are a free man now. Free now, and forever. You owe me, nothing. I am just a foolish girl. Always that.” She rose from his arm. Keen to depart (even from her own bed) if she was unwanted beneath the covers.

“Free…” The word was foreign to him. After, untold horrors—deviant atrocities, at Ramsay’s hand, the concept was without grasp.

“Free.” She cemented the word, in warm—but forced—composure.

With sullen eyes, he sought out the sounds of the wildlife, just outside. Listened to the wind blow, trees scrape against the stony castle walls. And he contemplated the cost of losing her.

Dreams of the past were long behind him—as were instances of a pleasant future.

No matter the direction he sought—he only foresaw pain at the end of the road.

 

* * *

 

 

Sansa

 

Some nights, under the rough, attacking fingers of Ramsay—she had pleaded for death. Never out-loud. Internally.

Many pieces were chipped from her flesh. Knicks that still covered the most hidden spaces on her bodice. And Theon had replaced all that fear—with hope. Mere, hope. The torturous remembrance of explorative fingers over her skin; the essence of all their memories piled together—haunted her.

Coiled near the sweltering heat of the hearth, Sansa drew up the rabbit fur blankets. Tucked the small piece of comfort, right under her chin. Swollen redness circled each eye. And her muscles were worn, from hours of unrest.

Her mind was preoccupied with the memories he spoke of fondly. Every illusion of the future that would never be. Perhaps, once she might have taken his hand in marriage. Wed him without a second thought on the matter. Loved him, beautifully—as a wife, does her husband. And he would love her in return. Back when she was a senseless, innocent Lady, hidden away in the North. And he was an inheriting Lord from the Iron Islands.

Innocence robbed them both of their freedom. And stubbornness, and shame—robbed them now, of happiness.

Tired eyes found poison in the flames, as Sansa listened to the sound of her own breathing. Hours, it felt as though she laid on the cushioned settee.

Until, muscled arms wound around her from underneath. Firm hands dug into sensitive spaces of curved skin. And the soft comfort of her bedding met her back. Theon’s bloodshot orbs found hers in the firelight. Silent as the dead, he laid alongside her.

Shaping his hand around her curved jaw; Theon captured the swell of rose-red petals. Tears blinded her. Sansa blinked them back. Grasping hold of Theon for dear life. Fearful of losing the contact of warm skin. She wanted to ask, but feared the answer she would receive, if she did.

Did he merely feel sorry for her? Was he kissing her for comfort? Or love? What did this moment mean?

Hiking her leg up to nestle firm against his thigh—their kisses deepened. Burning heat built inside her lower abdomen. Every sign that he retained every urge inside, that she did, surfaced. Ten-fold.

“This is your bed, My Lady.” She burned at the use of her title, rather than her name. What more could she say to make him understand—they were equals?

“Sansa.” Demanding Tully-hues sank into his. Daring him to revert to the frivolous title, once more.

“My Lady.” He dared. A mild glint of Iron-born stubbornness shone in his eye.

“Take off your breeches.” Spoken in the form of an order, her eyebrow quirked.

If he could play the part—so then, could she.

With slight hesitation, he unlaced them. Slid them calmly down his hips. The pulse of his heart beat fast against his rib-cage. She could feel the pulsing beat just underneath, with her soft fingertips.

“Undress me, Theon.” She willed him to react with the proper enthusiasm that he had previously. Listened to the heightened state of his breathing. Rasps of air leaving parted lips. She drank in the waves of lust that roiled off of him. Kissed him when their lips crashed together. Lifted her arms, when her nightdress was discarded upon the stone floor.

Tantalizing him with her eyes, slow fingers dragged down, until they circled his stub. Whines left his throat. Climbing astride her, he spread her thighs. Rutted down, displaced her fingers, by locking his own around her wrists. Hoisting them well over her head.

Pinned, she forced her mind not to panic—not to remember. Ramsay.

Instead, she focused on his kisses. The pleasurable build down between her splayed thighs. Came from the fire he invoked in her loins. Sansa nipped at his lips. Brushed her nose right against his. And whined.

This was love. In her eyes; this was all she might desire. Nights spent in the arms of the man she gave her heart to. Her bodice. She was his. He was hers. There was trust here. Disregard for set rules, together.

Need to flee—together. This is what she wanted. Why could he not see it?

Why did he not want it, too?

Forever?

Then—It bursts.

Pleasurable heat spreads through every limb in her frame. Eyes roll back in her head; skin darkens with red-heat. And she moans out his name. Fingers curl into the hands that hold her wrists in place.

Tangling their tongues, letting the past transcend into the present—she falls deeply for him. Deeper than before. Deeper even, than she might have ever hoped to fall.

Suddenly, she recognizes, that no matter how she might free him—she will always wish for what she asked, before. And always will.

To be his wife.


	4. Part 4; To Fight Among Wolves

_**Part 4; To Fight Among Wolves** _

* * *

 

> _If you cannot speak your_
> 
> _brokenness_
> 
> _your brokenness will speak for you._

 

* * *

 

 

_**Sansa** _

 

Strips of morning sun poured in through the wide-open window boards. Sansa felt the low-drawn furs tangled around her midriff. Rosy, puckered nipples were on full display upon her chest. Gleaming rays of sunlight illuminated her otherwise pale skin. Birds sang in high-chirps, flittering past the window pane.

None of these woke the red-haired beauty.

Burning aches did.

More pointedly—flutters of pleasure that engulfed her lower-half.

Light noises departed from her throat. Rumbled her lower-folds. Sweet nectar trickled to fill previously dry lower pleats.

She drove her hips up, instinctively. Turned her sleepy head to one side. Shuddered in sensation as haziness faded. Nimble fingers sought out thick curls. Toned thighs spread wider under the assault from his wet muscle.

Awareness, suddenly overcame her—Theon stayed.

He was here.

“Theon…” Simpering little moans parted from the rear of her throat. Arching her spine—she shuddered; then came.

Release surfaced, boiling deep in her belly. Sweltering in every nerve-ending—every piece of her overstimulated bodice. A stray tear discarded down her cheek. And she turned her head as her motions ceased. His motions ceased, too.

Swollen lips dripping from her wetness. Her bedlinens were soiled in her cream. Thighs slick with her release.

A radiant smile spread across her features. “You are still here—"

Theon connected sodden-petals to hers. Claimed her mouth for his own, in one fell swoop. Silencing her.

Tangling their tongues, her fingers dug into the firm skin of broad shoulders. Theon did not even so much as flinch. Pain was nothing—to either of them, now.

Swallowing his taste filled her senses. His scent permeated the air. Sweat. Salt. Muskiness.

No longer—was he forced to smell of hounds, and foul odors. He bathed nightly, now. Prior to guard duty at her door. Or he did.

Now, there would be Jon to contend with on that front.

Finally, they broke apart. Emboldened pools bore deep, within Tully-blues.

“I must go, My Lady.” Still, refusing to call her by her name.

She was stung by his refusal, but gave nothing away in those eyes. Instead, soft-padded fingers grazed down his ear, over his jaw. Dragging against his pulse point. Over his Adam’s apple. Unwilling, to relinquish him from her bed.

Nor, from the winding comfort, of her embrace.

“Please, stay.” Refusing to meet his eye, her pad traced absent circles upon his chest. Instead, focusing on his skin.

“Jon will kill me for this. And I will not continue to shame you, My Lady.”

Chivalry laced his voice. However, the insistence that she might be shamed by their time together, was absurd. She found no shame in their shared nights. Nor felt it. Yet, here he was—stating this was not what he wanted. Again.

She might be stubborn—but decidedly, would never order a man (especially one so fractured mentally as Theon) to her bed. She promised—he was free.

And he was.

Swallowing down thickness, she nodded.

“You do not shame me, Theon. You help me…”

She could not finish the sentiment. Recalling the fearful sound of scratching just outside. Night sounds that haunted her. Kept her awake. Her mind’s inability to accept that Ramsay was gone. That he could not harm her, further.

Peace had come to Winterfell.

Honor was restored to her family name. Always honor.

His eyes would not meet hers. Instead, he picked at his fingernails. Even as her thumbs brushed down over the scars made by those same nails, the night previous.

Little scabs were still there. A haunting reminder that Theon was not right, mentally. That asking him for intimacies he feared—was improper. Wrong.

“Leave then.” She offered permission to him. Realized that it was what he awaited from her. She was not Ramsay—she could never be that.

Without hesitation, he stood. Pulled on discarded clothes. Last of all, his belt—and sword.

Solidly, she straightened her back. “If you were whole—If Ramsay never cut away at you…Would you have truly wed me, then?”

He paused at the door. Sansa witnessed his hesitation. It was slight. Then his back straightened, eyes turned timidly towards her naked form, huddled on the bed.

“I always knew we could never be, My Lady. Even then.” And with that, he tugged on the door. And disappeared through it.

 

* * *

 

 

It was a long time before Sansa had removed herself from underneath the furs. Found the strength to dress. Run a comb through long tresses. Even if it were not Winter, the sleeves would have been long.

In order to hide away the tattered essence of once porcelain skin. Instead, she was pale. Scars from each deeply performed cut Ramsay had made upon her skin. Along her arms, breasts, stomach, thighs. Everywhere.

Theon still believed—there was honor left in her, to preserve. As though all she was, had not been cut away. Just the same as all he was, had.

Somehow, she could still claim to be a Lady. But he was not a Lord.

Refused to be a Lord.

Finishing up, she gave a final glance at the bedlinens, bunched up furs on top.

She made her way to Jon. Found him settled in his chambers. Silence burning through the room. Ghost nestled at his feet. His massive head poised on his paws.

“Jon.” Curtly, she greeted him.

He made no motion (not even a nod) to indicate that he even heard her. Still, she took it upon herself to close the door. Fiddling with her skirts, she drew in closer.

“Are you cross with me?” Nervously, her fingers wound into the fabric. Teetering on the edge of instability, Sansa waited. Listened, for his reaction.

“No.” Gruffly, he responded. “But I must say, I do not understand why you would invite him into your bedchambers. I posted him at your door to keep you safe.”

She was suddenly reminded of being a chastised child. Their Father lording over her, smelling of Earth, and salt—insisting that she would be a perfect Lady one day. A match for a fine, Lord. So long as she kept her virtue.

“You cannot possibly understand, why.” She responded, simply.

“I would like to.” Haunting eyes seared right to her core. And she entwined her fingers tighter together.

“Would it bring you joy, if I went into great detail of every bruise, cut, and atrocity that Ramsay inflicted on my body? Would it give you understanding, Brother? If I told you, how I cannot sleep, without the warmth of another at my side? That when I close my eyes, I see Ramsay. Cutting away at every piece of me he dared, so long as I was whole enough to provide him heirs? How he cut away at Theon, Too? How only Theon could possibly understand? And how he is the only bit of comfort, I have selfishly asked for, that you have now deprived me of? What is it I should say to you, Brother? Tell me, and so I shall speak it. You have no idea, what I have endured these past years. How hard it has been, to breathe without fear of death. Without fear of everyone, and everything. And now…Now Theon will not have me either. Now you have taken the one person I loved, that loved me. Tell me. Do you too, find joy in my suffering? Do you, Jon?” She never meant to go on. But once the first word came, the rest came with it.

Every wrong doing that she had overcome. Each emotional pitfall. Until, finally—there was so much inside of her, she feared she might suffocate.

Horror wrote into Jon’s features. Stunned silence, perhaps. She promised she would keep her composure, but bit by bit, that composure dwindled.

He came toward her, arms extended, as though to draw her in. “Sansa—”

“No, Jon!” She wrenched a step backward. “I have been raped, cut, beaten, and manipulated by every man that I have known since I departed Winterfell! Theon was the first man to be gentle—kind. And you stole that one bit of happiness from me. You look upon me—your sister—as though I am a whore. I promise you, Brother. I have no intention of being with any other man. If not, Theon. Then, no one. No one at all.” This vow was absolute. Even with her eyes streaming—wet with tears. Even as she choked on sobs. Coughed until she choked.

Her belly seared with the shameful look that Theon gave to her, each morning after. And the one this morning, broke her worst of all. Jon had convinced him of his own treachery. Cemented what she had worked so hard to undermine in his mind. Theon was fragile. Ramsay made certain of that.

And Jon unraveled all of her attempts to assuage him.

“You are right, Sansa. I do not presume to understand all you have endured. Nor, do I presume to tell you how your life shall proceed from now on. I am not our father. You are not my property, Sansa. Nor any man’s. But I found him on top of you. What could a man without his parts possibly be doing on top of you?”

Red flush spread over her cheeks. Mortification surged underneath her skin. And suddenly, she understood how it must feel, to be Theon. The butt of every bad jest. Seen only as a man without his bits. Not as a man, just as worthy as any other, of pleasure. Of happiness.

“Just because he does not have use of all of his ‘parts’ as you say, do you believe he can not find pleasure in other manners? Is your mind so narrow, Brother? You would shame, Theon for not being able to find that pleasure the same way as you?” Her tongue lashed out at him. Fingers swiped away tears, furiously.

It was Jon’s turn to flush. “I would not shame him for it.” Defensive tones were imposed.

“You already have, Jon. You broke his mind. Attacking him for it. Just like Ramsay would have.” She wanted Jon to hurt—like she hurt.

“I did not attack him for that—”

“No, you attacked him for me. And I never wish you to do so again. Touch Theon again, and I will leave, Jon. I swear it by the Gods. I will find the tallest part of Winterfell, and throw myself from the roof. And you know why I will do such, Jon? I have nothing left to lose. What is my life, now?”

She did not wait for him to speak again. Instead, she turned, departed from his chambers. Leaving him stunned, the same way that he left her with Theon’s crumpled unconscious body the night previous.


	5. Part 5; To Break Everything.

_**Part 5; To Break Everything.** _

 

* * *

 

> _Everything that’s broken_
> 
> _is in your hands._

 

* * *

 

 

**_Theon_ **

Wind whistled through the courtyard. Whipped bits of snow off the ground, where they hovered for an instance—then faltered—swaying back down upon the Earth. Always, it was easiest to concentrate on the littlest things.

Far more than to concentrate upon the bigger picture.

 **Sansa**.

The northern beauty was never far from his mind. Always a thought away. Three eves had come, then gone, since last he shamed her.

Images of those nights, scoured the broken ridges of his fractured mind. Slowly, the crescents, pierced into his palms were healing. Thin, white scars would soon take the place of reddened lines.

Dark rimmed circles, scored the underside of Theon’s eyes. Jon had avoided him—with poignant stares whenever he passed. Oftentimes, Theon would cower when he saw Jon approaching. Sulk into a nearby alcove until he was gone. It was the safest option. Not to lose his life.

And Sansa—steering clear of her, altogether.

No longed requested to guard her at night, he instead huddled in the pens that once held Ramsay’s hounds. They were long since abandoned. And a sort of home to him. Familiarity.

Jon would never seek him out there—he felt unsafe in the chambers he was granted upon his arrival. Smelling of hay, and filth was second nature to him as Reek. What difference could it possibly make, now?

He saw so little of Sansa in the past days. Glimpses of her lingering above for a small window of time. Distinctive sadness glazed her eyes—always.

Precise, careful steps were made up above, at the top of the landing, near stone pillars. He recognized scarlet-red hair. Saddened optics—and Theon made quick work of remaining hidden from her view.

One quick side-step, had him covered by shadows. Darkness. The likes of which he lived in for years.

After various nights spent underneath warm animal pelts, upon her bed, squirming underneath exploratory fingertips—he burned for her. Even now—a mere glimpse of what he turned away; set him alight.

Blood rushed to fill his need. Theon’s head twitched. Eyes. Hands. Mouth. In quick succession, from the sensation of the burn. How he missed her.

Even though, each night was wrong. That they could never be, as one. Splintered with shame for Sansa—his love would never flutter out. Not for her.

Instead, the absence of her touch—of their sin—made the burn deeper. Fiery.

Skulking back to the hound pens—he lowered to his knees in the hay. Beat. Punched, thin fabric of his single-threadbare blanket, into a pillow-ish mound. He rested his head on the faded thing. Closed his eyes. Then counted.

One. Two. Three.

She was not his.

One. Two. Three.

He brought shame upon her. Upon them both.

Further counting—further dissuasion did nothing to alleviate the burn. Like fire, it spread. From what remained of his toes—to his head. Skin grew achy—hot, underneath the thick fabric of his clothes.

Unbuckling his belt latch with clumsy fingers—Theon shed his sword. Laid it alongside of him in the hay. His armor was in the corner. Discarded. He was no knight. No protector to Sansa. He could not even defend himself.

With closed eyes—he remembered each past encounter with Sansa these last days. Lonely, as could be. The burn increased in totality. Ignoring it, did no good.

Finally, it became too much.

He pushed his hand beneath his breeches. Recalling the soft touch of Sansa’s hand—he used his own. Palmed the swollen stub. Felt blood rush there. Bucked his hips in pitiful, movements. Panted in heated moans. Dug his face into the blanket to muffle his sounds.

Though, there was little purpose to stifling his cries. No one would hear them—nor care to. The stables were all but abandoned. Hounds, all slain.

In slow, agonized movements, he jerked his hips. Rutted roughly against his palm.

The burn built. Until it boiled in his loins. He ignored every ache that came with lying in rough, hay. Each joint that spasmed from countless torture. And for this instance—he felt human.

“S-Sansa!” Choking the cry into the scratchy blanket—he descended into sobs. Pulses of release spread to every nerve-ending. Each corner of his form. And his useless hand, stilled.

Breath catching, slowly. Eyes remained clamped shut.

“Theon.” A cracked voice, barely above a whisper slammed reality into him. Hard.

And his heart nearly stilled, entirely.

 

* * *

 

 

**_Sansa_ **

 

Each night granted her no sleep. Not a wink. She felt the horrors inflicted on her, by Ramsay in every muscled ache underneath her skin. Heard his footfalls every which direction. Could even hear his sickening voice inside her head.

Jon avoided her. Theon, too.

Sansa felt more alone than she ever had in King’s Landing. The guard outside her door at night was young. Perhaps handsome—but not Theon. Not the man she sought to protect her.

Depression descended in on her. It was not only loneliness she found in Winterfell. But heartache.

Theon would not have her, and Jon could not see reason. She felt like a black shadow had descended on her life. Darkness. Cruelty. Loneliness.

All of which, followed her about.

Traipsing in the waning light; fresh air was all she could hope to have. Theon hid from her. Where? She knew not.

Then—A flicker caught Tully-blues.

A shadow. Brief. When it had gone—she barely knew if it was ever there at all. Descending the steps in slow movements, Sansa wandered out into the courtyard. Refused to meet eyes with anyone. Least of all Jon as she passed. Once she reached the space, she saw the flicker—nothing was there.

Of course. Theon did not want to be found.

Able to move in darkness—hopelessness shrouded her heart. About to turn—leave—was when she heard it.

Low, guttural sounds, that came from the shadowed, darkness of the stables. Pens where the hounds were kept, still stood. Inside.

She braved the entrance. Crossed the threshold, and stepped in careful silence toward the noise.

Finally, she reached the end. And the sight that met her; shocked her to her core.

Theon. Curled in filth—in hay. Rutting against his own flattened palm. Silver armor shimmered in the corner. All highborn clothes discarded for peasant rags. Hair unkempt. Unclean. Moans of her name—parted those swollen-red lips.

His name fell. She did not mean to speak it. Meant to flee this place—but then decided against it.

Sansa spent each night of the last three; crying. So, tears sprang easily to her eyes.

Theon jumped. As though struck. Yanked his hand free of his breeches—as though it might be bitten. And cowered in the shadows. Similar images of the first time she laid eyes upon him (just prior to wedding Ramsay), came to mind.

He told her their first night; he did not self-pleasure. Yet, here he laid, doing just that.

“M-My L-Lady.” Tremors wracked his frame. It was not fear, she recognized, but his shame.

She should not have followed the trail of sounds. Should have left, well enough alone. Yet, now that she was here—she did not wish to leave him.

Not in this unraveled state.

Horror was written into her features at the mere thought of him calling this dingy space, home once again. This was unacceptable. Had Jon permitted this?

“You cannot be—Are you…sleeping out here?” Thick odors of hay, feces, and rotten wood, all blended to make the repugnant scent that coated Theon.

Broken nails dug into nearly healed palms. Skin tore, blood trickled down his wrists, as whole breaths were gulped in—then out. Bloodshot eyes were wide in terror, twitches began anew. And she witnessed him cringe in response.

“I m-must. I c-cannot be t-tempted, M-My Lady.”

With widened eyes, Sansa listened. Witnessed the extent of which Theon was damaged. This was **her** doing—and Jon’s. Surging forward, Theon was gathered into warm arms in one fell swoop.

He jerked. She felt the rough little movements. Slight. Shaking breaths.

“You are free now, Theon. Do you hear me? I assigned you those chambers. They are yours. This pen is not your home.  You deserve the accommodations I gave you. Not this, Theon. Never this.” Shamed eyes trained on the strands of hay. Refusing to meet her eye. Here. Huddled on the floor of this dingy space, Sansa imagined every bit of fear Theon must have known whilst he was a true prisoner. How low he had fallen in life. The degradation. Nasty spoken words.

“Forgive me, My Lady…” Haunted eyes stared at nothing. Refused still, to pair with hers.

“Have you been spying on me?” Faltering vocals, sounded.

Nails dug deeper within the newly opened wounds. In quick succession, Sansa reached to unclasp his nails. Straightening his fingers. Lowered pink petals to kiss, crimson blood-stained palms. Irony-scarlet liquid, coated them. The taste, strong.

“Don’t. I forbid you, to harm yourself. Do you understand, Theon? I **forbid** you.” Urgently, her eyes pleaded for him to heed her spoken words.

He twitched. But said nothing in recourse.

“I had words with, Jon.” Shifting to a new subject; she sought to calm him.

His head rose up, eyebrows pulled taut. “You…did?”

“I did. He will not attack you, again.” Sansa hoped the reassurance might bring him peace.

“I sullied your name. He should kill me for it.”

Sullen eyes lowered. Sansa’s heart sinking. No hopefulness was retained in throbbing chambers of her heart. Theon, claimed to harbor love for her—yet, she was not enough to incentivize him to live on. To fight to have her. Keep her.

“It is I that wishes for death. Death would be merciful. I told him I would leap from the tallest height I could find; you know. Promised him, if he sought to deprive me of you, that I would rather die. Such a foolish sentiment, considering that you alone, deprive me of, you.” Pad of her index finger, made a trailed down his cheek. Across Theon’s firm jaw.

“Sansa—”

“I know. You need not turn me away, again. I know I am not what you want. Apparently, your hand suffices.” Jealousy waged war in her optics.

“I used my hand. Because I could not bear the burn for one more instant. You awakened that part of me, Sansa. You are that part of me. You make me burn for you. Only you. And I know not what can be done to tear this feeling asunder. Gods. I wish I did. It would save me…”

“Save you?”

No verbal response came. Only the crashed heat, as lips descended upon hers. One swooping action—and all walls broke. Shattered.

Torn from alongside him. She was made to straddle, bony hips. Kissed in devouring heat. Sweltered with lust—need. And lost to the fiery heat, from within.


	6. Part 6; To Lose all Reason.

**_Part 6; To Lose all Reason._ **

* * *

 

> _Did you see?_
> 
> _I’m still here,_
> 
> _Even if you broke my heart._

* * *

 

**_Sansa_ **

**_Nine Years ago._ **

 

_Summer air whipped across the fields, whilst leaves spiraled down through the air. Tully-blue eyes turned to meet the figure racing just behind her._

_Sansa was destined to be a proper Lady, according to her mother. Schooled in the proper manner to stitch together dresses. Learned in reading—writing. Sansa’s proprieties laid inside the walls of Winterfell. Not outside._

_With Theon. As much a prisoner of these walls—as she. His golden-hair that shimmered in the sunrays, and sea-green eyes that stubbornly found the depths of hers. And a great many rambunctious urges that drove him to chase her through the grass. Along the fronds—sometimes even through the stream._

_Water would lick at the hem of long skirts. Later—there would be stern words from her mother._

_In this moment—the exhilaration, overrode all else._

_Fresh air was thick in her lungs. Cawing ravens swooped high overhead. All that mattered—all that existed—was escape. Fleeing from the older—faster—male._

_Suddenly, she overestimated her strides. Ducked around a tree, narrowly missed scratching, soft skin on rough bark—then faltered. Sansa felt the heat of arms encapsulating her as Theon tackled her to the Earth._

_The wind knocked from her lungs. Grass stained her sky-blue skirts. And thoughts of escape fled the forefront of scattered thoughts. She was rolled with rough fingers onto her back—pinkness spread across heated cheeks. Pupils dilated—skin burned. Even time ceased to exist._

_Theon had her. Right where he claimed to want her. On her back._

_Helpless to his whims._

_“Told you, I am faster.” Triumph glimmered in emerald-optics, rays of sun glittering off sandy-curls. Illuminating his presence._

_“Any man could outrun a Lady in heavy skirts. You won nothing. Merely cheated.” Unwilling to provide him the satisfaction of her defeat—instead she taunted him._

_Curious eyes flickered then changed in the light. As though uncertain as to what words he should next utter. Shock surged into her belly. And lean, strong muscled arms held her fast._

_Eight years separated them. There happened to be little chance to none, that she would have harbored the ability to outrun him._

_“Is it your skirts, My Lady?” Mischievousness overtook his gaze._

_Tully-eyes widened. “You would not dare!”_

_“Wouldn’t I?”_

_Barely had the words fallen, that nimble fingers were bunching up the fabric. Squealing, she flopped underneath the bulk of his weight. Until, fine-skirts were collected around her middle. Recognition, lit in his eyes._

_Her struggle, died. Pinked skin, flamed red. “Where are your underthings, My Lady?” Heated warmth, met with the bulge of Theon’s breeches._

_Refusing to answer; she shot daggers with her eyes. Death stares._

_“Let me up!” Demands soared from rosy-petals._

_“No underthings…Knowing I might tackle you? You planned for this. Do you deny it?” Flashing her a devilish smile—he inched nearer to those rosy-things. All-the-while keeping her pinned, without falter._

_Sansa felt the growth of his rod. Right where it pressed. Down below—through thin fabric that separated them. She knew a man's arousal well enough._

_“T-Theon.” Stammering, she suddenly felt vulnerable. Transparency was written all over masculine features—Theon craved this._

_Whispers flowed around the castle. Despite the impropriety of young ladies eavesdropping on vulgar conversations—She had._

_Her ears had caught more than one instance of men, and women alike speaking of Theon’s unhealthy appetite for the weaker sex. Frequenting brothels—pursuing kitchen wenches. Was she a prize to him? Despite her youth? A souvenir— **trophy** —to brag about? Robb would run him through if ever he heard of this. Yet, here he was. And Robb— **well** —was off on a hunt with their Father._

_“Have you ever been kissed?” Throaty whispers cracked through the air._

_Shuddering, Sansa shook her head. Heart pounding in her throat—heat spread everywhere. All conscious thoughts—fled._

_Still—she could not respond. Clenched—trapped—in one single moment. Even thoughts to struggle—were lost._

_Coarse fingers touched along her jaw. Prodded down her pulse-point. Over silky smooth skin. Still—she was rigid. Blood pulsing to all the most improper areas. As she waited with baited breath._

_Slowly, with earnest ease—weathered lips touched down on plush—smooth ones._

_He **stole** her first kiss. Took as she heard Iron-born men always did. And yet—Yet…._

_She did not feel robbed of it._

_Flutters stole through her heart. Expanded to send spiraling chills everywhere._

_Fingers began to roam. Lips hesitantly learning from his experienced ones—and skin tingling with unfamiliar sensation. The firm, prod of him through body-warmed fabric no longer felt foreboding. But inviting. All thought of where they were (sprawled carelessly in a grassy area) faded away—and there was just them._

_Just **this**._

_Until, the kiss broke apart. Heaving breaths drained from full lungs. Sea-green eyes glowered with something akin to shame. Perhaps, remorse._

_Just as quick as it all started—it ended._

_Theon sprang to his feet. Straightened his rucked-up clothes. Refusing—all the while—to meet her eye._

_“Wear undergarments from now on. Regardless, you have grown too old for chasing games. And I bore of them. And you.” Harsh imbued tones slapped her._

_All sensation of floating bliss—had long passed._

_This was one taste of freedom from Winterfell's walls, she found with no other. Only Theon. And now—he would deprive her of that freedom._

_Ten was too old._

_“They are scratchy against my skin.” Whispers emerged, as tears rimmed her eyes._

_“A Lady wears them, regardless of comfort. **Whores** do not.”_

_Wounded by his unconscionable words—she made to strike back. “ **You** would know.”_

_Fury lined his features. Instead of a response, however. He turned—storming away._

_And left her, confused, with her skirts around her middle—and tears flowing down reddened cheeks._

* * *

 

**_Sansa_ **

 

The memory tore at her from right within her mind. Long forgotten, as a day to be ashamed of—unspeakably ashamed. But now—Now it returned. An echo of childish transgressions between them.

The very first instance, she had known— _Theon felt shame_ —for what they had done.

It was but a simple kiss. Sweltering with need. Imposed by the forceful nature of a hormone-driven Iron-Born. Yet, even then, he sought to turn the shame around on **her**.

Force her to feel dirty.

 _ **Wrong**_.

Just as he attempted the same, now.

She felt that same force in his iron-clad grip burned, through every sector of her infrastructure. Felt the loss of control that overpowered conscious thought. Instilled in her bones, was the proper manner to exist as a Lady.

Wear undergarments, tidy otherwise tameless hair-strands, never spread pink-thighs for a man you are unwed to—The list was tireless. Endless.

The first of which, was instilled in her, because of Theon. How he shamed her for it that day—compared her to the whores he bedded. Her jealousy had also been persistent. That he should want a whore, rather than a Lady. That, as much as she deemed to despise chasing games, when asked about them by another—she **once** had adored them.

When strong, Iron-born arms would wind round her middle. Until she became, a _**bore**_.

Robb never knew, by her grace, alone. Not even when she laid pressed-bare to her eldest kin. With complete transparency between them. This one secret, she had never shared. Instead she had tucked it away, even from her own psyche—until now.

She had known— **then**. That the chasing games were more. But shame, had erased the memory. Instead, she recalled the brazen way he would pull at her skirts. Assuming it was a tease. A _**game**_.

It was _**always** _more than that.

Now. Sansa let the kiss take on a life all its own. And was wrestled down, into the filth of the hay-filled pen. Felt the tear of her plain-dress. Ripped. Shredded from her pale skin. Undergarments, too. He made ragged.

She in-turn, tore the peasant-rags from muscled skin. Brushed scars galore scattered over his chest. Itched between her thighs—for him. Suddenly, recalling the poke of his length, that day. And wished, he had stayed. Finished what he began. _**Defiled her**_.

A Lady.

Theon would have been gentler. Kinder. Incomparable to Ramsay’s touch. She might not fear all men, had Theon been her first.

Stripped of all concealment. Their skin met. Parts came together. She felt the prod of his stub, swollen anew. Moaned in depravity as he ruts. Twitched. Dominated. Broke.

They came apart as a sweaty heap— _Together_.

Breathlessly, she trembled underneath him.

Tears fell. The same as the day he left her. Shamed in the wide-open grasses just outside the walls of their home.

She knew what transpired next.

Listened as his breath shook. Realization hit. Regret came. Finally,  shame.

“I-I…have to…I c-cannot…” He stood.

She felt it this time. _Truly_ felt it. The shame. Horror. Filth.

He twitched. Naked as his name day. Tattered remnants of his peasant-clothes slid off, discarded into the hay.

Smelling the repulsive odor of the pen surrounding her; that same filth—now **coated** her.

Was Jon correct in his assumptions? Was she disgusting? Debauched? Filthy? Ruined now? She had not fought him off, as any Lady would have. Not in the fields; at ten—pinned by a man of eighteen. Nor as a Lady of nineteen; pinned by a man of twenty-seven.

Unable to fight him—Gods help her—Sansa **loved** him. Meant every spoken utterance made to him. As a Lady; she belonged to no other Lord.

Only **her** Iron Lord.

One image, branded her memory.

The contemptuous glance he gave _that_ day; just prior to departure.

The tatters of her dress, littered soiled strands of hay. Her repugnant state, symbolized the way the Seven Kingdoms would see their improper proclivities.

“T-Theon.” Pleading Tully-hues landed on him. “Please.” Her voice cracked.

Shaking his head rapidly. Carefully guarded shells around his psyche—began to break. Witnessing it with her own eyes. Petrified her.

“N-No, My L-Lady! N-No!” Calloused fingers gripped tight to, sturdy pen bars. He turned to flee.

“You would leave me now. As you did, _**then**_?”

He froze in place. Twitching. Back rigid. It was painfully clear—even to Theon—which time she spoke of.

“I was just your play thing, then. You discarded me, when you bored of me. Recall? You told me I was like a whore. Because my undergarments were too scratchy. You tell me now, that I am a Lady, that I am so far above you. All because I have my intended parts, in place. Because I can bear a Lord, children. Yet, **then**. You would call me ‘ _whore_ ’.” Her tones rose, nary above a whisper. Her bodice felt boneless, where he discarded her.

Theon—was silent. Twitched at the word ‘ _whore_ ’.

“You **stole** my first kiss—and I **loved** you, then. The moment you took it. I would have fought to be your Lady. If only you would have permitted me the chance. And now…” Her skin seared. “Now I plead for our union. So that you might know peace in our shared nights—and you deny me.”

She paused, wiped streams of tears.

Shamed expressions, wrote into Theon’s eyes. Dirt, coated scarred skin. Mirroring hers. They both—were coated in filth.

“You left me…My skirts around my waist. Your taste on my lips, and held no regard for how you might shame me. And now, you tear off my clothes—have me in the dirt—filth—of this pen. And regard me as a proper Lady. Untouchable to a cock-less man. Sullied only, by any love we might retain. Any affection.”

“What is it you wish me to speak, My Lady?” Sorrowful eyes, trained down, upon shoe-less feet caked with dirt.

“How can you see me as a Lady _**now**_? When you did not, _**then**_? I have been torn apart by Ramsay—as have you—and yet, still, you claim I am whole enough to wed another man. You know what his touch does to a person…You know how it feels—how it felt…to be torn open, by him.” Theon flinched.

Rumors were whispered around Winterfell’s corridors back when Ramsay held it. Vicious, horrid rumors, she once forsook as lies. That Ramsay used Theon. Used him as more than a victim of torture. Rutted with him—right in **this** pen.

Tears fell unchecked down, pallid cheeks. The final piece cracked.

“He shaved me. Made me soft, like a woman. Then he pinned me down. Tore me—till I bled. Called me his whore, each night he fancied to. Asked me if I loved him, after. I remember, Sansa. I will never forget.” Shaken. Bitter, fear, trilled from him. Almost monotone. Haunted enough to break him in half. Sobs imbued with his words. Along with his uncontrollable, trembling. “He took my manhood—then made sure I felt his pleasure, when he would spend, inside me. Is this what you wish to hear, Sansa? Do you desire to know why my shame, will always be enough to sully you?”

Stunned, by his use of her first name. She gaped.

Wearily—she stood. Inched closer, felt the tug of her shattered heart, as confirmation of every wretched rumor, she ever heard repeated—became truth. He made no move forward, or backward. Stood shaken to his core. Trembling, sobbing. Instead.

Tugged into her embrace. The nakedness, and filth, no longer mattered. All there was; was this moment.

“You can never sully me. Never, Theon. Stop saying that.” Tilting her head—warm swollen-lips brushed upon his.

Taut skin, met the firmness of his muscles. “You are a man, Theon. Just a man. You were my brother once. Now my soulmate. I would have you in this pen, a bed of furs, or at the end of the world—but I would have you. _**Only** _you.”

Theon cupped her cheek. Bit her lower petal, and grunted with frustration. Backing her against the wall.

“I would ask you again, to be my husband.” Kisses broke apart, and Sansa uttered broken little words.

Theon held her taut. Hoisted from the hay, thighs widely, spread apart. Their swollen parts clad against one another. Tears mingled, skin seared with fiery burning, heat—and her chest stilled, breath baited.

“Then I would take you, for my wife.”


	7. Part 7; To Bend a Wolf.

**_Part 7; To Bend a Wolf._ **

 

* * *

 

> _Remember, for everything_
> 
> _you have lost, you have gained_
> 
> _something else. Without the dark_
> 
> _you would never_
> 
> _see the stars._

 

* * *

 

**_Theon_ **

“You promised yourself to him?” Unsuppressed anger, exceedingly raged in Jon’s wild-dark eyes. A death-glare flashed in Theon’s direction. Immediately, Theon relinquished his grasp on Sansa’s hand. Shrinking back several feet to accumulate adequate space between them. Lest he find cause to flee.

If Jon came at him, with the Valyrian-steel blade, latched to his hip—He could not fight him.

Both of them (Sansa and himself) were still caked in filth. Fiery-scarlet tresses were rucked up. Strands of hair spurned in various, different directions.

Counting, began to wreak havoc, in his fractured mindscape.

One. Two. Three.

Sansa begged for this…

Another three.

Once she sets her mind to a task—she never gives in.

Theon knew, he could rage a battle of wills against her—and fail—eternally. Same as he currently, had.

Just the same as when she was little more than ten—and she goaded him into chasing her. Wind whipping his face. Mind praying for just a taste of those plump-pink petals. The fresh maple-scent of Sansa’s bodice taunted him.

Especially then.

It was the simple pull of her charisma, that led him to do it. To connect their lips. To steal her first kiss—as she remembered it.

Twitching, Theon knew he was oceans apart from the youthful male that chased after her that day. Emotionally—he would never be structurally whole again.

“I told you. I will have, Theon. Or no man. Ever.” Firm, warning vocals, imbued with poisonous-tones, surfaced.

Theon knew she meant every word. As, did Jon.

“You are a Lady! And yet, you were found, rutting with him—naked—in a pen. What am I to make of a man, that would dishonor you, so blatantly? Carelessly? Pray-tell me, Sister!” The hand around the scabbard of his sword, tightened. Theon cowered, until his back found the sanctity of a wall.

Fingers latched tight to the tufts of fur, draped around his frame.

Sansa grasped her own, unashamed. Seemingly unfazed that she stood nearly, entirely naked before her brother, in his own bedchambers. Withstanding his fury.

Theon flinched, in detriment.

“We used to chase each other, once. Do you remember, Jon? The chasing games?” Bewilderment, writ into Jon’s eyes.

“What? Yeah…What of it?”

“Whomever found themselves tackled, would lose—then have to submit to the other. Whatever they wished to do with their captured victim. Tickle. Kiss. Hug.” Theon knew where this was headed. In anticipation of his impending death—he began inching unnoticed, toward the wooden-door.

“Theon used to play with me. Long after the rest of you quit. I would find reasons to antagonize him. To have him give chase. And he never failed to catch me. My legs were shorter than his.” Sansa gave a mischievous smile in his direction. The sentiment clear—she was no longer shorter—They were equals in that regard.

“I reckon this story has a point, Sister. A point that does not end with me, murdering your intended?”

Sansa gave a soft little smile. “The point, Brother. Is that one day, he caught me. Pinned me to the Earth—and he gave me my very **first** kiss. One I had longed for, from him, specifically—for almost a year. And I knew then, that I would plead with Father to let me wed him. There had to be some way. Some world, in which he would no longer be a prisoner of our home.”

Theon held his breath, until his lungs burned with the pressure.

“Then. Just like that, Theon made me believe, that he **stole** that kiss—rather than gave it—simply, because he could.” Jon’s eyes hardened. But he remained rooted in place. Sansa balanced her hand, over Jon’s heart. Stubborn, Stark-eyes met.

“For years, I believed it. Until I saw what Ramsay had done to him. Until, I looked into his eyes—and I saw what I had always known was there—perhaps— **deep** down. But there, all the same. **Love**.” Words barely an octave above a whisper, proceeded. Jon’s eyebrows drew tight together.

“I knew he had not tricked me. Rather, it was shame that prevented him from chasing me again. From going further than one silly, little kiss. Fear, even. Of you, or Robb if you ever found out.” Jon seemed less tense. Muscles relaxed underneath Sansa’s touch. Theon knew that touch well. It could make him burn from the inside out. Want, like no man could ever possibly imagine, wanting.

And he remembered.

Remembered his intentions that day. The sheer will it took, to lift himself from atop her, heat-infused bodice. How exceedingly simple it might have been, to steal more than just a kiss. Tortured, thoughts ran amok. Now, he could never know the sensation of her tight heat around the throbbing pulse of his cock. Which, seared the burn deeper into his belly. Until he felt he might go raving-mad with the proof of it.

“He broke under Ramsay’s cruel torture. His mind was so lost, that it took a fair bit of coaxing to bring him back to me. But he **did**. Come back. He has **always** come back. Do you understand, Jon? If I am not with him, and he is not with me—We would be lost, Brother. Both of us. When I believed myself dead Theon killed for **me**. He forsook his brokenness, to fight through the persona of Reek—to save **my** life. And take me, to you. Near the end, when Ramsay would leave me in pieces, Theon came to me. Had Ramsay caught him, he would have taken another finger—or toe—” Theon shuddered. “—But he never found him. He would hold my hand. Just my hand. And though he was often distant, I knew it was what was left of his soul. Comforting mine. Reminding me, who we are.” Sansa’s sapphire eyes landed on sea-green ones. Bore into his soul. Stripping him bare. All his tremors ceased.

Streaks of tears cascaded down either pale cheek. “You speak of Lords that are worthy of me. But there is only one. There will only ever **be** , one.” Declarations were made. And Theon was stone-silent. Jon, too.

“So, tell me, Brother. Is it only a cock that makes a man? Or is it his soul? Because from what I have borne witness to, Theon is as much a man, as you. Or Bran—Or any other Lord, you might have sought, for me to wed.”

Theon was without speech. Conscious thought flimsy. Trapped eternally—between the memory of Reek—and the reality of Theon Greyjoy. So little made sense. Tapped into the incomplete pattern-like swirl of hallowed memories. He faltered.

Now. Theon knew there would be no, having words with her. No speech in this world which would change her mind.

She was determined. And Stark-stubbornness was notorious.

Always.

Jon cleared his throat. Gave one final hard, stare, in Theon’s direction, then spoke.

“I can see that your mind is made up. And I will not see you lost. Therefore, I will support your union.” Relief coursed throughout Theon. Breath returned to fill his lungs.

“I will have the servants run you a bath, Sister. Both of you.” A nod was given in Theon’s direction. “And no more rutting in the pens. Agreed?”

“Agreed.” Sansa acknowledged.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have no idea just how many parts this shall have! I do have quite a few running ideas on where it is headed, however. So bear with me guys! I love hearing your thoughts on this fic. So many of you have been so kind! I was not expecting such an outpouring of love, from so many of you! You have all made my week!


	8. Part 8; To Strengthen a Bond.

**_Part 8; To Strengthen a Bond._ **

* * *

  

> _Make peace with your_
> 
> _broken pieces._

 

* * *

 

 

**_Sansa_ **

Steaming rivulets within the bathing tub’s water, squiggled up, engulfing the bathing chambers, with humidity. Timid eyes met the slender-straight of her back. Sansa could sense, his lustful-gaze upon her.

She turned. Permitted silken-furs to cascade to the stone. Rough against her foot-pads, the sedimentary surface, felt cold. Despite heat swirling in the air.

Mouth-agape. Theon’s pale skin, blemished with scarlet-heat. Pulsed thoroughly with heat.

Calloused, rough fingers relinquished the hold on his own furs. They too—met the stoned floor.

Taunting eyes came to pair with Theon’s. Soft, teasing, little fingers danced over the space of his chest. She knew of his weaknesses. Longed to kiss, the swell of reddened petals.

“Climb in.” Tilting up her chin. Soft petals connected to rough-lips.

Unwilling to deny her—Theon stepped within the steaming heat. Sank down, underneath—heat-borne surface. Muscles rippled with shock, from the intense burn—she witnessed, his resistance in silence. Warmed petals tugged into a gentle smile.

Expectant sea-green optics, gawked up at her. She complied to his silent question.

Dipped a toe into the water. Felt ripples of the burn tingle up her leg, straight up her spine. And shivered.

Sinking underneath the surface. Either knee met the wooden-bottom of the tub. Perched astride Theon’s waist—all the while.

“Do not ever sleep out in that pen, again, Theon. Promise me.” Fear struck deep within. If he broke apart again…Would she be able to bring him back?

Haunted, unreadable eyes returned the strife shone from within. “I promise.”

Index finger, traced the stubble-laden curve of his set jaw. Right down his chin. Adam’s apple. Jutting clavicle. She felt his shudder, impulsively, wrack throughout her own bones.

“You are meant to be clean—” Lifting a tattered rag, she wiped down his chest, “—handsome, pure. And mine. Always mine, Theon.” Whispers dalliance over scarred skin.

“Sansa…” Disagreement rose in his tone. Cat-like, Tully-eyes, however. Silenced him.

“Reek is dead. Gone. You are Theon Greyjoy. And your skin is clean. Pure. Loved. Mine.” Tears rimmed dark-circled eyes. Quivering of his jaw, began.

Still, Sansa scrubbed the rag over, filth-laden skin.

“Tell me. Who are you?” Rosy-lips skimmed the surface of red ones.

“T-Theon Greyjoy.”

“ **Lord** Theon Greyjoy.” She corrected.

Theon flinched. But nodded.

“Tell me what you want, Theon.” Curiosity flickered within her mind.

“I want…to be whole.” Her hand paused. The rag midway to his pelvis.

She knew. Of course, she knew there was no reality in which she could ever make him truly, whole once more. Gods, she had prayed for guidance—strength. Prayed for his rebirth.

“You will be. I will make you whole, again. Do you trust me?”

Theon’s conflicted glance, shifted. He offered her a nod.

“You are the only one I trust.”

Warm toned smiles converged onto her face. Deft fingers sought out the cusp of a rough cheek. And sultry-lips, crashed to his uneven-pout. Muscled hands found womanly-curves just at her trim-cut waist. Exploring with hastiness. Skimping over supple-protruding, breasts. Nipples roughed over, by experienced thumbs. Guttural moans flowed from his throat, when her thumb-pads traipsed over his stub.

Theon’s face jerked back. Departing from the kiss.

Seeking fingers coiled around her wrist. Afflicted optics stained hers. His head shook, rapidly.

I cannot…again…just **yet** ….” Cheeks pinkening, Theon attempted to belay something to her. Sansa’s eyebrows furrowed.

“Are you…Do you not desire to…?” Heaving breaths escaped strained-lungs. Sudden, embarrassment fluttered through her. She meant only, to comfort.

“I am not as…resilient…now that—” Stammering. Theon’s eyes would not meet hers.

Realization hit. Although, his motions were eager. Raw. She had noted the lack of throb from his fleshy-stub. No reaction.

“Have I…depleted you?” An amused smile graced her petals.

In the pen, Theon had spent three times over. By his hand, with her; on the floor, and finally, against the firm-wooden wall, when a guard caught them.

Shame burned in his eyes. Lowering his head—he refused to meet her own. His jaw, set, firmly.

“Forgive me, I meant you no jest. It is only…I used to hear that you would last all night. Tired out the whores, kitchen wenches…Whomever took to your bed. You always harbored inhuman, vitality. Were the rumors, false?” Rumors often were. It would have made no difference to her.

Theon winced. Those tears collected in his rimmed eyes, fell. She went to stroke his cheek—he turned away. “I warned you, My Lady. I am not a whole, man…Not anymore.” Forced words, choked out in throaty, whispers

Sansa felt the internal struggle, he fought. Waged a war inside of his heart—for her. It suffocated her. Broaching on her heart. Until all else collided with her soul. She fought for him. No matter the brokenness inside—this was her Lord. Her Iron-born, lover.

If his stamina was not what it once was, it mattered little. She never doubted his infatuation with her—his love.

“Sansa.” She corrected. Refusing to allow him to backslide—not over this trivial thing.

“Do you recall how you would bed, other girls? How you would touch them? Kiss them?” Theon’s chest rippled under her touch. Shudders traveled up his spine. She felt them.

Inquisitive eyes searched hers. But; he nodded.

“Show me.” She would not have him view himself as worthless. Useless. Never again.

Seeming to snap out of it. He connected their lips again. Sucked her petal, between sharp teeth. Kissed. Sucked. Licked, at her lowermost petal. Returned the scorch of his touch to the heat of her frame. Thumbed over a puckered pink-teat. Used his mouth to release hers. Only to worship her neck. Kissed down slender-slope of her neck. Used rough fingers to pinch her. Within seconds—she was alight with the burn of his touch. In heat. Need for him.

With thighs already spread wide—eager rough hands found her pleats. Spread her apart. Brushed her little button—She dug clean-cut nails into his muscled shoulders. She was on fire. Just from his touch-memory. Three fingers plunged up inside of her. She squeaked—Jilted—her hips upward. Lost touch with reality. Felt rough petals suck a nipple, between his teeth. Lapping needful—she whined. Shuddered. Squirmed—then came, over those invading fingers.

Lowering—spent—upon his shoulder. Twitching uncontrollably, from over-stimulation. She sighed in contentment.

“See? You have so much inside of you, Theon. I will never fault you for staying capabilities.” Little whispers of encouragement resounded. Billows of steam still coated the air. Thick steamy incense—were all around.

“What happens, when my fingers are no longer enough? When…you need a whole man.” Sansa shivered.

“You are the only man, I want. The only man I will ever want. Promise.” She kissed away, hot tears. Rubbed her nose against his cheek. Low hums, caught in her throat.

Rose petals scented the water. Sweat built on creamy skin. They would both be clean. Sansa would make certain of it.

“How I wish…I could have you properly.” Longing tones engulfed the air. Shock instilled in her.

“I know. I wish you could, too.” Despite fear of what a man’s cock could do to her. There was no shudder at the thought of Theon’s.

Once, long ago—she had felt the press of Robb’s erection to her belly. Woke, entwined in his arms. Thick with need. Dreams of maidens caused his nighttime stimulus. Still, it was the first time she viewed a man’s part. Thought instinctively, that she would know one inside of her. Each night, after her marriage to a fine Lord. Robb had flustered upon wakening. Apologized for it. She had felt no shame. Still felt no shame at the memory.

“I would have let you; you know.” The declaration was timid. Shy.

“Let me?” Puzzlement overcame Theon’s features.

“When you kissed me, that first time. I would have…I would have told you I wanted it, too. I was not afraid of the marital bed. I told you that I would have Robb alongside of me. Naked. Well, I felt it. The hardness—pressed to me. More than one morning.” With pinked cheeks; she pushed on. “I was not afraid. Not then.” She relinquished a sigh of regret. “Had you not been so quick to leave me ashamed, I would have told you. I would have never left you for King’s Landing.” She swallowed thick in her throat.

There was a war in his eyes. She glimpsed it, briefly. Something only he could understand.

“You were like a sister to me, then. I was ashamed. To want you, Sansa. I did not want to feel, what I felt. I tried, everything. Even red-haired whores—” As though realizing what he spoke—he ceased.

Blue-optics widened. “You thought of me?”

“Every time I bedded them.”

She held his gaze in horror. Wiped her thumbs across his stubbled cheeks. Captured any tears that fell. “Theon…” Her heart shattered. What could she say to that? What could she do to change it now?

If she could. She would make him whole. Give him pride. Joy. Love. All of it.

But she was helpless as a newborn kit. Helpless. Just as she had been when Ramsay preyed on her flesh. Just as she was when Joffrey preyed on her mind. Just as she was—Always.

“I am sorry.”

“As am I, Sansa—As am I.”


	9. Part 9; To Break Apart Spirit.

**_Part 9; To Break Apart Spirit._ **

* * *

 

> _So, you plant your own_
> 
> _gardens and decorate_
> 
> _your own soul, instead of_
> 
> _waiting for someone to bring_
> 
> _you flowers._

 

* * *

 

 

**_Theon_ **

****

Nestled close to the single-most object of his affections. Theon contemplated the life they might lead. One—he thought lost to him, forever. Skin to his skin—and bone hard against his, Theon’s thoughts scattered.

Night encompassed the secluded, darkness of Sansa’s bedchambers. Once, there was a time when he was forbidden from this little oasis. When these chambers, belonged to Lord, and Lady of Winterfell. Ned. Caitlin.

Stark-naked, Theon lay skin-clad against that of hers. Sleep had overcome his beauty. Life stained the encompass of what he was. Prevented the easy depths of sleep to merely come to him. Instead, Theon laid awake.

Despite his oath to Sansa—There was still fear. It enraptured the very precipice of his heart. Stung his insides. Reminders of Sansa’s innocence once; never strayed too far from view.

 **Never**.

But were they not both innocent? Once.

Once. And torturous realization that he once could have claimed that innocence—gnawed his belly from the inside— **out**.

Now, navigating the broken strands of his mentality, felt almost like an endless abyss. As though he were caught—trapped—between the seven hells—and the present.

Moments, where he hesitated to recall his location—his general safety—came into play. Theon, loathed for Sansa to view his weakness.

His unequipped state of mind.

He vowed forever—but **today** was all that could truly be spoken for.

Tomorrow was a haze of unknown potential to him.

It always would be, now.

* * *

 

**_Sansa_ **

There was a general stunned silence, that resounded as the announcement of their union was made. Those gathered around, whispered.

Surely, by day’s end the entire seven kingdoms would hear of the broken heir to the Iron Islands—vowing a union with Lady Sansa.

It took no genius to recognize the brokenness in Theon. Even as his stoic stance, alongside of her—remained. There were twitches, every few moments. He would never be sane; never whole. And yet….

She could not relinquish her hold on him.

It was unbearably selfish; but she was in love with him. Despite all of it.

Some would be repulsed by the years Theon spent in a hound-pen. Caked in filth. Reeking of hound, feces, piss, and other foul odors. Repulsed by the twitchy manner he existed. The way he would hobble, due to the torture his feet endured—all of him. The way he so clearly, repulsed a great many of the gathered nobles—even the servants.

Not her. Never her.

Theon was kind—good.

Everything a Lord (Sansa once desired to marry) should be. Despite the faults of his past; she forgave them. Theon was arrogant, once. Unkind in many ways. Yet, still she had taken a fancy to him—even then.

But only the course of their tortured lives, could have brought them together. Into the mix of this scandalous union. Aggravation shone in Jon’s eyes as he recognized the outright shock, in Winterfell’s people.

“How can you sanction this union? It is not a true, union!” One of the outraged Lord’s spoke up. Sansa felt Theon shrink away from those poisonous eyes as they landed upon him.

Sansa made careful rubs up his arm, in silent attempts to calm him, prior to speaking up on her own behalf—right over her brother.

“And what do you think, Lord Hornwood? That I am incapable of choosing my own union?” Bolstering tones, emitted from her lips. Silencing the whispers.

The man appeared taken aback.

“It is improper for this…this—” Lord Hornwood gestured to Theon, grasping for words.

“This, what?” Sansa felt Theon’s grip tighten on her. He was near to fleeing—she could feel it in her bones. So, she gripped tighter. Silently, forbidding him from doing so.

“—Abomination!” A few other Lords grunted, and guffawed in agreement.

Theon winced; twitch worsened. And she witnessed the fading of his own cognizance from his eyes.

“Aye! A man with no cock is nary a man at all!” Another piped up from the crowd. And a few more uttered their agreements.

“I mean---Just look at him!” Lord Hornswood, gestured a second time. “Cowering like some, soft, woman!”

Sansa rubbed up and down the length of his arm in calm, soothing gestures. Regardless, Theon was unraveling right beside her, all the same.

Tears built in those delicate, sea-green eyes. Muscles tightened underneath the skin—and she felt his walls building up. Walls that only she could eviscerate. Between them—in the sanctuary of her bedchambers; no walls need exist. They were safe, **together**. This—on the other hand—was open. Exposed. Uncomfortable in every conceivable, manner.

Still. She would power through—even if Theon could not.

His head lowered; refusing to meet anyone’s eye. Refusing even, to permit himself the pride he deserved.

“This man, is a Lord! Just as any of you are! He is a survivor! And he saved my life!”

“So, you give him a position as a guard, as recognition! Not your bodice!” Jolts shocked through Sansa’s spine. Her shock must have shone on her face—because he continued. “Oh, yes! I heard of how you were found, rutting with him in the hound pens. Is that not where he used to sleep?”

Theon could clearly take no more. With shame—he fled. Yanked his hand free of hers, and ran—more like hobbled—out of the hall.

Sansa longed to stay behind—defend Theon—but the call towards him was far stronger than her will to be in this place.

She gave a pleading glance to Jon, and he returned a nod. His meaning clear; he would handle this. With that—she took off.

 

* * *

 

 

Near to a half-hour of searching for him; until she found him. Huddled in the safety of his pen. Just as she had found him two days prior. When the shameful, comforting act they sought; apparently became public knowledge.

The neat-tidiness of his curls were lost now. Hair strands were sticking up on end. Theon’s knuckles were caked with drying blood. Nails broken to bits; eyes wide. Petrified. Sansa knelt to his level. Captured his hands in her own, gripped them in contemplative, need, to help.

“T-Theon…” Silent tears streaked down her pale cheeks, to match his. “Theon, w-what have you done?” He twitched. Then closed his eyes, as pitiful sobs came. Two tears rolled down his cheeks.

“They are right—I am an **abomination**.”

Her head shook in refusal to accept his proclamation. “They are wrong. You are Theon. My Theon. You could never be that wretched, thing they speak of. Never you…”

Soft petals caught the edge of his broken fingers. Ignored the iron-taste of his blood. Kissed until, his warm life-force was smeared over her pretty-pink lips. Then on to his knuckles. Each scratched bit of skin, torn off—made better with her tranquility.

“Ramsay, made me a monster…His monster--” Theon’s hands shook. Tremors wracking through them. His eyes glimpsing the bloodied things, as though he could not recognize them.

“No—No! Hear me, Theon. We are one soul. One being. Without you, I will fall apart. You are mine. I am yours. There is no me, without you. If you are a monster, then I am one too. I became what Ramsay made me.”

She was so desperate to make him understand. So very desperate to belay all of this to him.

“I forbid you from becoming, Reek. Please—Do not leave me. You promised. You promised me….”

Tears rolled down the circumference of his cheeks, hair wisps blew in the drafty pen.

He descended into sobs so deep, they shook through his entire spine. But he did not speak. Fear swept through her. She climbed astride his lap. Rocked him in her arms. Swept her fingers through his curls. And pleaded within his ear.

“Stay with me…Just stay. Please…” Gods. She wished for his pain to be gone.

But it never wished to depart. It remained. Weighing on him.

She felt it in her soul.


	10. Part 10; A Break in Time

**_Part 10; A Break in Time_ **

 

* * *

 

> _Paradoxically, we achieve_
> 
> _true wholeness only by_
> 
> _embracing our fragility_
> 
> _and sometimes, our brokenness._

 

* * *

 

 

**_Theon_ **

It felt as though the world had crashed in upon him. As though every lungful of air—was strained.

Ramsay, used to call him ‘ **abomination’** once. Before settling on the term, ‘ **reek’**. Theon vividly recalled the strain of his sore, muscles. His wrists tied firmly to the wooden ‘X’; ankles tied the same. Splayed so wide—not an inch could be budged in any direction.

Those unkind—brutal—words, had sent him **right** back there. Right back to the place of existence between life, and death.

Every instant of his horror was relived in the broken crevices of his mind. When those beautiful, soft, girls teased him with kisses. Ground down, until he was swollen with need. Pulsed to the core with lust. Then, the rough, unforgiving hands of his captor. With the help of those girls; Theon had been held down. Feminine fingers, had, opened the ties to his breeches. Kissed the long stem of his neck—bearing witness to his shame as Ramsay sawed at the base of his cock.

Searing pain had blinded him. Rendered him unconscious, from shock. The blood-red, crimson stain where his manhood, had been. All he had to remember that piece of him by, were lingering phantom aches.  That—and the stench.

Gods—the stench. Filth, accumulated over time.

Sheer agony—and lack-thereof of freedom from the ‘X’ kept him helpless. Dependent on Ramsay. Completely. It was after a night of being cock-less. Morning sun shone, even into the darkest corners of decrepit walls. Left to his own devices, after the sheer cruelty of Ramsay consuming pork sausage right in front of him—without indication from his broken, body—streaming rivulets of piss had soaked down his breeches. Stung with acrid liquid; his own body had shamed him—tortured him. Right before Ramsay.

It was incontinency, he suffered. Several weeks after. Unpermitted to so much as know freedom from the wooden rack; Ramsay—or the feminine beauties would feed him. Body odor—and his own bodily functions, helped cement the name.

Abomination—became Reek.

There was so much more than just his manhood lost in that dark place—but all dignity, too.

All self-structure. All awareness. Became torture. Still, even now—when he would squat like a woman to relieve himself—it would sting, mildly. Sometimes—he struggled to make it to a chamber pot on time.

The reek, Ramsay named him for—would always return.

Always.

Stranded, in discomfort. Theon, felt warm fingers in thick sandy-curls. Shuddering. Theon swept closer for warmth. Awakened from past consternation. The burn from his need to urinate is what brought upon unpleasant dreams.

Theon, squirmed in the rose-scented arms of the Lady Sansa. Every time nature called—he did his business in the privacy of the privy. The privy was far—and he would not make it there. Untangling from her—ignoring the coo of soft words, in question of his movements. Shamefully—he tugged out the chamber pot. Squatted over it—and relieved himself. Like a female it sprayed everywhere, now.

For years, Theon, took for granted his ability to stand—hold himself—and aim. There was no longer enough left—to hold.

Sansa came rapidly into realization as to his needs. But her eyes did not turn from him. He felt the burn in his loins—as she watched the shame he was reduced to.

Ramsay had beat him, once he was released from the cross. Beat into his skin, with cracks of a leather belt. Each time he dared have an accident. For the first weeks, it was so agonizing, Theon had procrastinated until the last possible moment (by then it was far too late to hope to make it to a chamber pot, or privy) and lived up to his name. Forced to wear about, his stained breeches as proof he was unhouse-broken. Worth less than the hounds he retired, alongside.

His tormentor, enjoyed pointing out, his worthlessness in that regard.

It was rare, when he could not make it, now.

Still, he could imagine the repulsion on Sansa’s face, when it inevitably occurred.

Finished; Theon replaced the lid, shoving the wretched pot out of sight.

How long had it been since he lost consciousness in her arms? He vaguely recalled sifting in, and out of consciousness. Being present—then not. Reliving moments as Reek. Being Reek.

White woven, fabric of his nightgown, felt unfamiliar on his skin. Only because, moments ago (in unconsciousness) he had been back on the torture rack.

“You do not have to hide from me, you know.” Smooth fingers massaged his scalp.

Theon grit his jaw, in solemnness. “Is it not enough, you have seen what is left of me, there? You would also see me, use the privy?” It was taken far more subjectively, than he had meant to.

There was so little he had left, that was only his. With Ramsay departed; using the privy was the one thing no living person saw him do—until now.

Perhaps, it was an overreaction. Theon, merely felt enough shame—he did not wish to feel more. And when he saw that sympathy written into her Tully-blues. It damaged him.

As the haze from the departure of his senses, cleared—more, and more came into view.

“You do not recall? Theon? Is it…Are you…okay?” Thumbs found his cheekbones. He leant into the touch. Closed his eyes against the warmth.

“Recall?” Drowsy words wavered in the air.

“I was so afraid…Afraid I lost you…” Less, and less sense came from her mouth, the more she spoke out.

Tears accumulated in her eyes. Dark-circles he did not recall, last night were almost a part of her skin. Almost, as though they were a piece of her now. When she drew into his embrace, he could feel almost all of her bones. Had she been eating? He could not remember her so thin.

His own arms, felt weak. Tired. Bones, protruded from just underneath his pale, sickly, skin.

Looking more closely, Sansa’s pigment was sickly. Normally poignant scarlet-tresses, dulled. Almost auburn in color. Confused, he circled his thumb over the strands, through his fingers.

“Lost me…?” He repeated. Head pounding.

She gave a nod. Still worriedly searching him over.

“You became Reek. Spoke as you once did. You would ask for my permission to use the privy. You thought…” She blinked, biting back tears. “You thought…I was Ramsay. That I might…punish you, if I did not give you permission first…You have been Reek for a month…You cowered from me. Pleaded that I not punish you. You would stand in one place. Stay there for hours. One of the servants found you drenched in…urine…you would not move on your own. I could barely…barely get you to speak. Or eat…I thought you were…gone...for good…”

Theon felt lightheaded. The endless dreams—they were real. He had been trapped in the endless haze of torture—fear.

One truth, Theon knew above all others—he could never leave Sansa. Not really.

Despite the unworthiness carved into his depths, she was a part of him. And he was a part of her.

Sansa’s arms wound, about his neck. Petals touched to his lips. And he suckled on her bottom petal. Moaned into the kiss. He felt touch-starved. Invoked with weeks of depravity. And just like that—the phantom arousal sprouted in his loins. Without the existence of his manhood—he felt raw; achy down there.

Oftentimes, aroused. And in urgent need of a feminine touch, despite there being no attached part any longer. Ramsay’s taunting voice sounded in his consciousness. Cruel curiosity as to whether he might ache in close proximity to a beautiful girl—He did.

Each time he held Sansa. The space where his cock once was, brutally ached for the warmth of a woman’s, tight depths. Sansa the holy grail of which he would never know. Never. Only with eager fingers, which was by far different.

“What of you? Have you not eaten?” Theon broke apart from her lips. Searched her ocean-blue eyes. Searching for a tether to ground him. A foothold in reality.

Her head shook. Timidly. “I was sick with grief. I mourned what I brought upon you.”

His stomach churned. “I am broken, Sansa. You did not break me. Ramsay did. I will always remain broken.”

“Please—I will do anything. Just do not leave me again.” Sansa burrowed her face into his neck. And he drank in her sweat-laced scent.

“I will try. Always try, for you. And always, return.”

And he meant it.

Always.


	11. Part 11; To Bare One’s Soul.

**_Part 11; To Bare One’s Soul._ **

 

* * *

 

> _And in the end, we were all just_
> 
> _humans drunk on the idea that love,_
> 
> _only love, could heal our brokenness._

 

* * *

 

 

**_Sansa_ **

Nearly a month had transpired, since last she spoke to Theon— **Her** Theon.

She had watched, helplessly, as he faded right before her eyes. Withering in body, and spirit. Fearful of most touches. Insistent on his identity, as Reek.

Her persistence he stands before the Lords, and Ladies of the North, in declaration of their marriage—had broken him. Completely.

Forced to endure those harsh insults, fundamentally judged by those that knew him by name only—was unfair. Jon had managed to calm the flurry of discontented Lords, by declaring his own intent to wed, a Lady, befitting a Lord of Winterfell.

Soon, thereafter, the chatter had fizzled out. Leaving, Sansa to pick up whatever pieces remained, of the man she loved.

It took half of the month to convince, Theon to leave the pens at night. Even longer to convince him that curling upon the bear-fur rug, rather than her bed, alongside of her, was unnecessary. She believed, gradually, that she could draw him back to the surface.

She never quite expected he would resume his life, all at once. Awakening, as though he had always been there. As though, no semblance of time had passed.

With, questioning—strong—words she recognized, Theon. There was not expectancy in his eyes, for her permission to use the chamber pot, only shame that she was viewing him in such a position.

Drawn into his embrace, she felt up the front of him. Shuddered from his touch. Even though he trembled with weakness—his grip was firm. Comforting.

She had wasted away with him; felt the agony of her stomach clench, as hunger consumed her. Her bones wearing thin. Still—she had picked at morsels, sick with dread.

Now—She felt her strength returning. Just from his kisses; his reassurances.

“Theon…” She missed even the simplicity of speaking his name. As Reek—he would refuse to answer to his true name.

His nose nudged against her cheek. Warm breath, grazed her neck. And she shivered in pleasant sensation. She wondered what occurred in his mindscape. How he existed as two men. One that was partially whole—and one that was fragmented.

Her questions, exceedingly went unanswered, as she drowned in his arms. Felt the pulse of his stub, through the sheen nightgown. There was already arousal in him. Along with recognition.

“Take me as your wife, Tomorrow. No grand ceremonies—no nobility in attendance. Only the Maester, and Jon.” Sansa coxed into his ear.

Her fingers dug into the tough, skin of his shoulders. Felt shivers ripple through the muscle underneath. In one fell swoop, Theon growled. Wrestling her to the bedsheets. For a glimmer—an instant—she saw into the eyes of the young man that had her pinned to the grassy-Earth. Her thighs spread, skirts up. She almost expected to feel the prod of his erection, underneath his nightgown— **Almost**.

Perhaps; it stunned him as well. He froze. Rigid, for a long moment. Then, closed his mouth over hers. Kissed in rough, little grunts. Disregarding her nightgown, he tore the fabric. Shredded it, in his haste to remove it from her. Then, kissed, licked, sucked, over her breasts. Across her chest, along either arm. Until he was trembling with pent-up, lust.

She yanked, tugging his nightgown over his head. Their bare skin met. Her fingers roamed. Over scars that littered his chest. Over the rough patch, where his right nipple, used to be, down to his pulsating, stub.  He jerked at first contact with the nerve-riddled piece of him.

Violently, tore her hand from between their frames. He pinned her arms down. Then, met her drenched cunt, to his need. She let out a sigh of sheer ecstasy. Arcing her back off the bed. Rutting up her hips, as he rutted down in abandon. His moans were high-pitched. Almost dog-like whines. Sweat accumulated on their skin. Sticking them together, in the brunt of things.

Sansa should have felt trapped—maybe even frightened. But she missed seeing Theon this way. In control—oblivious to the world. The way he was, as a youth. The way he was— **before**.

She felt the pulse of her swollen pleasure-button. The heat radiated—burst—through every particle, in her bodice.

“Theon!” His name screeched from her lips. Loud enough that perhaps, the guard posted just outside the door, might hear. Her fist tightened in his hair. And his release was just as powerful. She felt him pulse against her. His remaining stub’s attempt to release seed, as he once had.

Gradually, she began to come back down to Earth from the heights he soared her to. She was nearly able to open her hazy-eyes. When she felt his mouth, trailing kisses down her skin. Despite, his exhaustion—he was still moving. Letting tired, eyelashes shift downward, she viewed him in silent, wonder.

Then felt him duck between her thighs. Kissing trails down her left thigh. He planted a trembling kiss, to where her inflamed pearl peaked from between engorged, lips. She shivered. His tongue lapped at it a few times. Then ran between her lower lips. Collecting her juices, tasting her.

“T-Theon…” It was as though he awoke in heat. Needing to burn off the last few weeks of nothingness.

She bunched her hands into fists, and arched as he attacked her pearl. Sucking it between his lips. Letting madness all-but consume her being. Thoughts vanquished from her mind.

His fingers held her down, rough enough to bruise her pink skin. And she came again, over his face. She lost count of how long he stayed down there. Kissing, sucking, licking. Until she ached from far more releases than she imagined possible. And just needed his arms, to hold her.

He was near the foot of the bed. Seemingly burned out. His eyelids were heavy, lips puffy from use. And no longer so rough, as she reached out for him.

He nudged underneath the furs. Kissed her neck, with a single, little peck. Then, pushed her hair from her eyes. Shyly, his sea-green eyes, returned to the timid way he gazed, now. His body unburdened of all strain. Stress had parted with it.

Theon was silent; as was she. Her breath, attempting to catch up with her lungs. His arm wound around her waist, but Sansa feared sleep. Afraid she would awaken to Reek. So, despite her exhaustion, she turned in his grip. Locked their eyes together.

“Will I ever be able to simply hold you, without fear your mind will take leave, again?” Whispering in soft trills, she hummed.

Theon’s eyes turned haunted. Skittering in movement. “No.”

His answer pierced her, though she had known what it would be.

Another question skirted on the tip of her tongue. One she was uncertain about asking. Yet, it would not leave her mind.

“I laid awake every night. I would listen to you breathe. Pray to the Gods to return you safely to your mind. To piece you back together.” Absently, her finger brushed over his surviving nipple. Taking note of his twitch, with every circle she made.

He was silent.

“You would speak. Sometimes. Broken little words. Others...whole sentences.” She watched his Adam’s apple bob. Still no words.

“When Ramsay…” She paused, regathering her nerve, “When he, cut you…How did it…happen?”

Theon shifted, wide-eyed. As though momentarily seeking out the trick in her words. And she felt her heart lurch. It was insensitive to seek his answer, but she had listened as he made those nighttime sentences. Heard, as he roused in his sleep.

Even with a fractured mind; she had felt him rouse. Twitch, in his sleep, even. Often, as though in pleasure, then screams of agony, had awoken him, as Reek.

Theon jolted upright, and Sansa’s arm fell from its place, draped over his chest. “Why? Why would you wish to know that?” Joining him in an upright position, the furs slid down to bunch around her middle.

She bit her bottom pout. Hesitant to tell him.

“You would, talk in your sleep. Sometimes…You would, moan...and I would feel you—”

“S-Stop!” His shout, pierced the air, and she jolted. Stunned. He had never risen his voice to her. Not once. He usually complied. Despite his shame, or fear. Despite the trauma, he suffered.

Sansa swallowed. “P-Please…I cannot, M-My Lady…” All anger, that was present mere instances ago, vanished. Leaving behind the broken man, she had grown used to.

“I apologize. I intended no harm. I only meant—”

“To shame me…” His skin was reddened in color. Tears rolled down his cheeks. “You do so, well, My Lady.”

It was not his shame she wanted. Only for him to be able to heal. If he woke himself screaming from the memory, he would never heal. Never.

“Never, Theon. And I am to be your wife, will you not call me, Sansa?” Inching nearer, she wrapped him in her arms.

He laid his head against her breast. And she released the breath of air she had not even realized she was withholding.

“He sent his bedwarmers to me. His playthings.” He spoke distantly. As though through a hollow hall. Theon clenched his teeth. “They touched me. Rubbed on me. Claimed they wanted to see my cock for themselves—” Refusing to look at her, tears tread down his cheeks. He sniffled. “They stripped for me. Kissed me. Made me forget I was strung up on the rack, less than an hour before.” Theon shivered, as Sansa brushed dainty fingers over his cheek. Grazing his stubble, with her thumb.

“He became jealous. So, he—they held me down. The girls watched as he—I was still erect when he…removed it.” Horrified, Sansa felt him lean into her. Seeking out comfort, reassurance.

His trauma was absolute. Emotions splintered with self-hatred.

“Theon…I am sorry...” The words felt meaningless. How could she ever belay what she felt, hearing about the torture he endured? The lack of humanity? The receiving end of which she had known herself. No words possibly could suffice. Not for this.

“Does the knowledge, please you?” The words lacked the contempt, from moments ago. He merely sounded, defeated. Tired, well beyond his years.

“Of course not.” She smoothed her fingers over his brow. “I hate to watch you suffer. I feel so helpless. Ramsay is gone, but you still are not free of him.”

“I will never be free. Never.”

She gazed long, and hard into his forlorn optics—and knew. He was right. In all this world—she knew no way to set him free. Not while he carried this unforgiving mutilation—and would until, he died. So, she held him. Listened to his breathing. His tears. And had no answers to give.


	12. Part 12; To Bind Iron with Wolf.

**_Part 12; To Bind Iron with Wolf._ **

 

* * *

 

> _Some people come back_
> 
> _to haunt you_
> 
> _no matter how deep_
> 
> _you bury them._

 

* * *

 

 

**_Theon_ **

In the shade of the Winterfell’s weirwood tree; they stood. Exchanging the sacred words in slow, careful, precision. Sansa draped in a self-stitched marital dress. The finest fabric the North has to offer. Teal-blue in color, with her hair styled up, off her neck. It was not a day—as she promised it could be; but three.

Theon, stood before her. Hair neatly combed back. Lips drawn into a tight, careful smile. Breeches, and a fine, coat of furs, draped over broad shoulders, (also stitched by Sansa.) and brimming with muted colors.

The light, that surrounded her—refused to touch the surface of slanted-eyes. Although, an act was portrayed for that of Jon, (whom gave her away) and the Maester, (whom proclaimed them man, and wife) something was amiss. However, he cloaked his bride in silent, anticipation, with almost, consistently, tremor-induced, hands.

Theon counted in his mind. A habit, he reckoned he had not done, since he reawakened from the window of time, as Reek.

One. Two. Three.

_I just married Sansa Stark._

One. Two. Three.

_Our souls are joined as one._

Draped around each of their wrists, was the binding tether. The final piece of the ritual. Their souls would come together in the afterlife. To be viewed among the old Gods. Vaguely he wondered if Sansa held regrets that they wed.

After all, Theon had had words with her, repeatedly in an attempt to dissuade her from this union.

Redness, puffed either of her eyes—However—the sunrays effectively hid them from anyone, not close enough to bear witness to them. Anyone, apart from him.

With the ceremony at an end. Tradition took over, and Theon swooped her into his rose-scented embrace. Carrying her towards Winterfell—and the new life, they would lead.

 

* * *

 

 

One promise, was kept.

There was no celebration. Jon went about his duties as Lord, whilst Theon was left alone with his glum wife. Despite a forced smile on her petals—it never quite reached her eyes.

It was troublesome.

Enough for him to plant her on the bed, only to kneel at her feet. Calloused, fingers grasped tight to her soft little things. He felt her tremors. She was clearly, unwell.

Should he permit her time to rest? He pondered the question in his mind. Let his thumbs brush the backs of her hands—soothingly.

“I am your husband, now. Would you prefer that I was not? Have you regrets, now that the deed is done?” Theon had to question her. Despite knowing that the answer he might receive, could detrimentally impact him.

Despite this evening, meant to epitomize the undying love that surfaced between them—he did not sense the calm, resilient vibes coursing off of her. Rather, intense sadness. Regret.

“I fear it is you, that shall regret our marriage, not I.” Sansa wiped a few stray tears down her cheeks. Set her jaw, in disdain. “I have been dishonest with you.”

Theon’s heart sped.

One. Two. Three.

_She had good reason._

One. Two Three.

_She loves me unconditionally._

Swallowing a heavy lump in his throat, Theon cupped her cheek. Brushed her neck with his opposite thumb.

“Is it, Ramsay? Did our marital vows, bring back memories?” This was the most clear-headed Theon had been in a long while. For the first time in weeks—he was without scrambled thoughts. “Do you need to lay, skin to skin?”

Theon knew it helped. From Sansa’s own lips, she had sought out comfort in the arms of Robb. Oftentimes he wondered, how they both had managed to keep the secret from him. From all of the curious eyes, at Winterfell.

Sucking her bottom lip, between her teeth, Sansa lowered her head. Shaking it rapidly. Her fingers tangled into her skirts. Theon, rubbed up, and down the span of her arms. He felt powerless, to comfort his wife. Was this how she felt when he succumbed to the darker impulses of his mind?

“Tell me what I might do to calm you.” Unabated, he smoothed, rough fingers through her strands of hair. Listened to the raspy shake of her breath. He longed to kiss her. To pull all of the scars that clung hold of her heart—to transfer unto him, instead.

“N-Nothing—”

Right before his eyes; Sansa descended into sobs. Not just soft, hiccuping sobs that he was used to. Heart-wrenching, terror-inducing sobs. Her entire body wracked with them. And he caught her, as she all but fell into his arms.

Hoisting her up; Theon laid her down against the rabbit-pelt that made up her bed. Unpinning her hair, the strands cascaded down her shoulders. Hot tears drenched his neck as she buried her face in. He was petrified with fear. Listening to her distress—hopelessly, praying for this to be enough.

 

* * *

 

 

Hours he spent. Sansa draped in the nape of his neck. Sobs dying out with her exhaustion, prior to her descending in sleep.

She would not speak to him. Would not tell him, what had been done.

Had someone spoken to her about their marriage? She rejected his kiss, when it was offered. Had planted her hand, rough, against his chest. As though belaying her intentions of casting him aside.

Theon knew offering his hand in marriage, to a Lady, was unwise. Although, he suspected this was the Gods punishment for his former years of mistreatment of the females he rutted with. Losing the part of him that made him a man, ceased to be enough. He was now wed, to a woman that decidedly could no longer, love him.

She pushed for their union. Fought for it. Vowed that she would desire him, until the end of their days—and now. Now, she could not even kiss him.

Repulsed with his own wretched form, he drew from alongside of her. Stripped from the fine, clothes that Sansa sewed together for him. And replaced them, with the rags he wore as Reek. Found himself unpleasantly, unkempt, in their bedchamber windowpane.

In silence, Theon laid on the bear-fur rug. Let discomfort surge, just underneath his skin. However, Theon made no motion to find, comfort, either. He was an abomination. Just as the Lords had spewed at him.

And now—Sansa had come to know it, too.

Wedding nights were meant to be romantic. Loving. Not theirs.

In resolute, discontent, Theon drifted to sleep.

 

* * *

 

 

Shrieks woke him. Panicked cries. Calling out for him. Blindly, in the haze of his blurred vision. Theon jerked into consciousness. Pulled from unpleasant dreams. Theon stumbled, unsteadily to his feet. Limping, he tumbled to the stone.

“W-Why did you leave me? You promised not to leave me! You promised! You promised!” Hysterical spiels parted, scarlet lips. Soft fingers, gripped so tight to either of his wrists, Theon thought he would bruise. He flinched. Shying from her scolding tone. Still not conscious enough to fully comprehend the situation.

“I did not t-think you wished me, h-here…” Tears cascaded. Matching hers.

Reddened cheeks, and wide-eyes greeted him. Fear was building in the air. He was beginning to unravel. Mentally. Physically. This was far more than he could withstand.

“You are my h-husband…” Sansa squeaked out.

Theon nodded, vigorously. Squeezed, under the frantic arms of his beloved.

She seemed not to notice that he was attired in rags. Only, that he had departed from her immediate, reach.

“I a-am.” He managed to whisper.

“You will never want me n-now.” She clung tight enough to make him heave for air.

“I will want you, always.” The truth of that statement, cut him to the bone. Made his belly sear with need.

She was silent for a long time. He lost track of how long. Half hour? One?

“You cannot, now. I am with, **Ramsay’s** child.”

Ice chilled through his veins—and shock branched to every piece of his tormented, broken, frame. And speech—refused to come. Nothing did. Except for the contents of his stomach. Heaved onto the stone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This has all been building up to this, from the start! I would say, sorry, but I'm kind of not-oops!--hehe! But it is going to be a very, very angsty ride from here! Let's be honest though, Ramsay just had to leave something behind for them to remember him by! ;] ( Also, not sorry about ending the chapter there. )


	13. Part 13; To Hide from Truth.

**_Part 13; To Hide from Truth._ **

 

* * *

 

> _They refused to let it break them_
> 
> _they faced tragedy, they felt pain and it only_
> 
> _made them stronger._

 

* * *

 

 

**_Theon_ **

 

Theon felt as though he was drowning. The same as he felt, pushed underneath the waves of the sea. On the Iron Islands, just prior to his departure, for Winterfell. The fill of his lungs—the choked suffocating sensation that engulfed him, when he was held down.

Ramsay had taken him back to that place. Bitter. Resentful. Until, finally his mind had switched off. Reek had emerged—and swallowed him whole. When Ramsay was slain, at his hands—at Sansa’s—Theon was finally free of him.

Of strangulation.

In this one, revelation—Ramsay had returned. This torture was the worst inflicted. Far worse, even than the prying off of his fingernails, or drilling of his feet, until the bones cracked under the pressure.

No—No form of physical suffering could ever possibly hope to compare.

Tears, blinded him. Shimmered in the haze of firelight. All traces of sleep, gone from his features.

Sleep no longer mattered.

The thought of a monster’s child developing in the womb of the woman he loved? Unconscionable.

Sansa’s heartbroken tears ate at him. From the inside out—he fought to recall, just how to hold her. His arms shook with such vigor, he struggled to curl them around her.

Blood pounded in his ears. Skin seared with the burn of unfortunate, pain. And the rush of his blood was so loud—he could not hear. He transferred to a remote location in his psyche. In an attempt to process, those words.

Those Earth-shattering, words.

 

 

* * *

 

**_Sansa_ **

 

Denial was a powerful thing.

All-consuming when one permitted it to take root. The lack of her monthly flower should have been a sign. Recognition, for her.

She would not let it be.

The sickness, in the pit of her stomach for the last month, when she thought of food.

She blamed on Theon’s regression to Reek.

Four moons. It had been four moons since last, Ramsay touched her. It felt like so much longer. A lifetime. But it had not been.

It was the Maester that revealed what she had denied, in herself. The morning after Theon’s reawakening, she had recognized the bump that appeared. Small. Resolute. And it came, overnight it seemed.

It was just there.

Small enough to make no one the wiser; large enough to tighten her carefully sewn, wedding gown. Just enough; to permit her, to push Theon away. If he felt it. If his hand brushed that little, barely bulging bump? What then?

How would she face him? And now—he was her husband. In spirit. In oath. In every conceivable manner. She feared he would not want her to be.

How could he? Now?

Which night had Ramsay put this little present inside of her? The last time? The first? She had no way of knowing, indefinitely. But the Maester’s facial expressions when he settled her down to tell her. Told her enough.

She would birth the child of a monster. A rapist. Murderer. Torturer.

Her ultimate fear is that the child would carry Ramsay’s face. The sickening, smirking, smug expression, he always seemed to carry. Worst of all. What if the child carried its Father’s proclivity for ungodly things?

Ramsay murdered his own Father. There was no telling just what a child of his blood was capable of. And yet—this babe was also a part of her. Half-Stark.

“T-Theon?” When he heaved onto the stone—her heart shattered. There was too much for him to withstand. The fear his mind could detach, was very real.

Swept into the strength of his embrace, however—she found comfort there. Warmth.

“H-How long?” Tremor-laden words pierced her like a blade.

The denial had lasted—so long. And Theon would not have noticed. Men rarely did.

“Four moons gone.” Her stomach lurched. The knowledge that in five more moons, she might welcome a monster into the world—gave no comfort.

Only fear.

 

 

* * *

 

**_Theon_ **

 

Sickness rose in his throat; this time he swallowed it down. Refused to be ill a second time in front of his wife.

Wife.

Such a strange thought. That he was meant to protect this woman. This Lady.

Sansa, he had known longer than he had his own sister. His birthland. How could he protect her—abide by his oaths—when he could nary protect himself from the fallout?

“Four m-moons?” Searching through the fried strands of his memory; he reckoned the last time he heard the wailing shrieks from these chambers; was the night before they fled. Theon, recalled shattering a cup in his horror, at her wails. The panic that he would receive the belt for his incompetence, had consumed him, then.

Bunching his fingers into faded-locks of Sansa’s hair. Theon inhaled her scent. Outside the window, the scratch of tree branches brushed stone. And the scent of fresh bread wafted up to mingle with the scent of the fire in the hearth, of their bedchambers.

She gave only a nod in response.

Tearful eyes found his.

He focused sea-green eyes on her belly. Hidden underneath the gown. His hand explored. Sought out the faint trace of a bump. Firm. Unyielding underneath calloused fingers—It all became real. Before it was just spoken words.

Pregnant.

That word echoed in his thoughts. Guilt ate him from the inside—out. Guilt. Because he knew he was incapable of ever giving her this. Motherhood. It was meant to be shrouded in joy. But what joy could be found in this?

Ramsay hurt her; brutalized her flesh to put his essence inside of her. To create this…thing.

Theon twitched, hesitantly.

“When did you know?” Tones barely above an octave of whispers, came from him. Solemnly. He sought the answer in her eyes.

“T-Three days.” Her timid response came.

He might have congratulated her under any other situation. Had she spread her thighs for another man. Fallen in love. Been happy. He would have let her go. Let her be happy. But he knew not, how to react to this. How to respond. How to be a husband.

A father.

He would be the **legal** father of Ramsay’s child.

He barely prevented himself from heaving again.

“I gave a vow, Sansa—” Spoken names were unfamiliar on his tongue, but he knew she disliked when he spoke her title. “—You are my wife now. We are bound to each other. What would you ask of me? I will comply.” He forced out the words.

The trauma was on the brink of collapsing him. But he withstood it. For her.

Sansa’s hand enclosed over his. Letting him grip the bump, with rough fingers.

“I asked too much already. I offer you freedom. The chance to walk away. From our wedding night. From Ramsay. From me.”

Theon’s heart cracked. To leave her, was to leave a part of himself behind. Dignity was all but lost to him. Sansa was the sole reason he regained even a morsel of it back. Ramsay had taken so much from him. So very much.

Now the woman he loved, as well?

He could not stomach it.

“You would ask me to leave?” His vocals cracked. “Just like that?”

“I could not bear to see you lost, because of me—because of this baby.” She spoke the final word through gritted teeth.

It could be a monster, for all either of them knew. It was a gamble.

“I burn for you. As a husband burns for his wife. You vowed that we would always be together. If I sealed our union—You would always be with me. Always be mine…” Self-hatred spun in his stomach. “Ramsay made me, barely alive. And you brought me back from the brink of death—only to cast me aside?”

Theon wiped his tears. Roughly. “Without you. I am lost, already.”

Sansa tilted up her chin. Kissed him in soft suspension. Their tears mingled in a salty-tang. His skin burned. “Could you be a father to Ramsay’s son? Could you look at him each day, knowing what his father did to us, and love him?” Theon had witnessed Catelyn’s disdain for Jon.

Through years of dysfunction, Jon had succumbed to his own self-disdain. He had grown to hate himself. Despise who he was. What—he was. Theon knew that Catelyn had been unable to carry through with loving Jon. She had been softer with him. Kinder. But never with Jon.

“I…I will never have children of my own. Never be able to give you one…I can—try.” It was all he could offer her.

All he had to give.

The knowledge of this child’s existence almost demolished him.

Only for Sansa did he hold on. For her.

 

 

* * *

 

**_Sansa_ **

 

Sansa feared the worst. In her soul. She knew Theon was fragile. Just as she was. Broken. Delicate. Fractured.

Their chambers plunged into silence. A foreboding ache set in her belly. He would **try**. It was not an indefinite no—but not a yes either. It was an in-between offer to her. For her.

In quiet, complacency, Sansa tugged Theon’s ragged tunic over his head. Discarded on the stone, she made to unlace his breeches. Ragged breaths rattled Theon’s throat as she slid the last of his rags off. “You are a Lord. You should not wear servant rags.” She all but whispered. Unlacing her dress with careful, precision. Yanking the fabric over her head. She was left bare to his eyes—as he was to hers.

“Lay down.” She ordered—Theon obeyed.

She made to straddle his hips. Let her warm, cunt reside over his stub. It was a distraction she called for. She did not want to dwell on the future right now. Only the present. Only their wedding night.

It was **still**. The eve of their wedding.

“Tell me again, Theon. How you burn for me? Would you have touched yourself, were I not to sate you?” Mouth agape. Theon’s hands roamed her waist. Grasped her hips in a tight, bruising hold. Skin flaming with heat in the firelight.

“San-sa…” Her name was drawn out. Slow. Edgy. His skin drenched with sweat. Building with lust. She could feel his tension. She ground down against him with abandon. Humped along his length. Made firm little ruts. As he offered, needful whines.

“That is no answer, husband.” She taunted.

And he gave another strangled whine in recourse.

“N-Needed to t-touch…” He all-but admitted, with a reddened face. And she gave a satisfied smile.

“I know just where you would have touched.” Sansa offered. Her hand slid underneath where she rubbed him. And found the single-most sensitive bit of his stub. Ground tight against him with her sweltering heat. Whilst her index finger pressed down.

His eyes rolled back. A spasm wracked him. And he came. She felt the powerful throb of him. The scent of his musk, as he fell to bits. And she rolled over the edge with him. And for one blissful instant—she was one with her husband. With Theon.

They were one.

And no one—not even Ramsay’s spawn could deny her that.


	14. Part 14; To Succumb to Darkness

 

**_Part 14; To Succumb to Darkness_ **

 

* * *

 

> _Care too little you will lose them._
> 
> _Care too much you will get hurt._

 

* * *

 

 

**_Theon_ **

Tangled in the arms of the woman he loved; the permeation of their love making engulfed the room. Skin tingled with feeling as he listened to the lull of her breathing.

She was sound asleep in the crook of his arm. Almost angelic in appearance. Skin glistening in the dying embers of the fire.

Theon’s leaf-green eyes sought out the little protrusion, barely recognizable to anyone, who did not know her bodice—but Theon memorized it.

Memorized her.

Every inch; each little dip, and valley. With tears welling in the rims of his eyes, Theon brushed over her stomach. Down…down…until his fingers grazed over the swell. Iciness pooled from the pit of his belly, outwards. Chilling him right to the bone.

Her question haunted him.

Could he love a child of Ramsay’s? Could he **truly**?

Ramsay took every common courtesy from him. Left him dehumanized. One of the hounds in a pen. Stripped him of the life he had always known. Hollowed him out in every semblance of the word. There were aches, long set into his frame that refused to dwindle.

Even now. As he lay sated alongside her form—cramps set into his left hand. Fingers locked up; sharp tinging pains spread through the joints. Theon shifted.

Using his right hand to gently ease light massaging circles into the scar on his palm (where the thin blade of a knife had once pierced through skin.) Theon winced. It was a daily ritual. Easing the remaining fingers on his right hand, to soothe the throbbing ache in his left.

He still felt what Ramsay had done to him. Not just in his hands. But his feet. Every step, reminded him of the screw piercing his flesh—cracking bone—until he thought he might die from the pain. On his worst days—the foot cramped so badly—he could merely hobble to walk.

Flashes of brutalization came to the forefront. Touch of unclean hands. The weight of skin; flesh—holding him down. Searing him with the burn of humiliation. Each time Ramsay pinned him—took from him—It shredded apart his humanity. His latch to this world. Theon’s will to live.

He still, felt **that** too.

Being torn open for another man’s pleasure.

He felt all of it, still.

And yet, Sansa was the love of his life.

The only woman that could ever mean this much, and he could never leave her. Even if it destroyed him to stay—He would.

She was his wife.

He vowed his own to her.

Delicately, Theon shifted, climbing from underneath the furs, Theon dressed in a nightgown. His eyes staring in disdain at the dried, mess he made of the stone floor.

He made quick work of cleaning the vomit with a bucket, and rag. It was habit to clean.

Instilled in him by Ramsay, when he was made a practical slave, as well as a prisoner in this castle.

Once finished, Theon nestled close to the fire, bundled in furs, listening to the low crackle. He planted a few extra logs, giving it a prod, or two—it roared back to life. Theon suffered from the cold, now. Every bone in his body ached when the chill hit, just right.

Yet another side effect of Ramsay’s brutality.

Every which way he turned; the ever-reaching influence of Ramsay was in view. Still dictating Theon’s life, even without an Earthly presence, among the living.

He imagined a child of Ramsay’s incorporated into the mixture. And he prayed to the Gods that they show mercy enough to have the babe resemble Sansa. He could withstand Tully-blue eyes, and carrot-red hair. He could almost forget the child would be half-Ramsay.

Pretend, instead, that a part of the child, resembled himself. He too, shared a few similarities with the Starks. Curly wisps of hair, like Robb, and Jon. The same muscular build.

All he ever wanted as a youth was to return to the Iron Islands as the rightful heir. Stake his claim, take a wife, and have heirs to carry on, after he was gone.

That life seemed so distant now. Broken.

He could never have babes. He never expected to marry. Not especially to the most eligible Lady in all of Winterfell. But Sansa chose **him**. Loved **him**.

And he could only ask himself why. Why she loved him.

When there are so many other whole men out there. Lords, with titles, lands, and prominent houses. Theon was nothing. Not anymore.

Now, she made him; hers.

 

* * *

 

 

Sunbeams extended in through the windowpanes. Rousing Theon from where he had nodded off. The fire had extinguished in the night; shivers traveled up his spine, from the chill in Sansa’s bedchambers— **Their** bedchambers, now.

It was going to be a struggle to wrap his mind around, being a husband.

Sitting upright, Theon piled new logs on the fire, tending it back to life. Wincing, as aches coursed through his frame.

He felt old. Beyond his years.

Settling by Sansa’s bedside, Theon offered her a warming kiss. He felt sleepy fingers drag along his jaw. Pink petals returned the kiss.

“I thought you might be gone.” Hesitant words came forth. Saddened Tully-blue eyes searched his features.

“I will not leave you.” Theon vowed. Cementing the promise with a kiss to the back of her hand.

With lingering hesitance, Theon’s hand released hers, nestling over her belly. “Nor our child.” There was strength in his words.

One he did not know how he found the wherewithal to speak.

Sansa’s face glimmered for a moment with hopefulness—then turned dismayed. Eyes saddened; skin shivered. Finally, Sansa shoved away his hand. Sliding off the edge of the bed, without a single word.

Theon felt sickness rise in his stomach. Bubbling there. What had he done? A troubled expression shone across his face. And he twitched.

“S-Sansa?” She was clear across their bedchambers. Seeking out a dress for the day.

She made no move to speak. Only proceeded to rummage. Lifting her nightgown over her head; the sight of her bareness—usually would set his insides afire—this time only made his stomach twist. Tears, leaked down his cheeks.

“I will…leave you in peace, My L-Lady.” Thick tension lingered in the air. Theon felt it.

Listlessly, long strides had him out of her chambers, down the halls, to the chambers she provided him, whilst he was a guard at her door.

Instinctively, Theon replaced his night attire, with his armor. Lastly, his belt latched into place. Sword, hung at his hip. Still, the ache set into his bones, made his stance, less straight. His eyes colder. And the loss of his wife’s ability to converse with him—only made his emotions less stable.

What had he said? Done?

Ramsay’s son would be theirs now. His.

Acceptance was all he could offer—All he could withstand.

Bile rose in his throat as he remembered precisely how Ramsay had forced this babe into his wife. Theon swallowed it down.

**One. Two. Three.**

Sansa is my wife.

**One. Two. Three.**

Ramsay gave her a child.

**One. Two Three.**

I can never give her a child.

He could not count anymore.

The numbers refused to come. And died at the last word.

Child. He was unable to give her this one happiness. One little gift that could have made them both whole.

Numbly, Theon left his chambers. Unable to think anymore, on the subject.

* * *

 

 

**_Sansa_ **

Lingering hatred made a home, just underneath the surface of porcelain skin. Even the warmth from the fire felt non-existent on her skin.

She could not feel. Could not see a path forward from here.

Not with Theon. Not with this…thing inside of her.

When she heard him claim the spawn; as though it were his own. She thought she might be ill. Right then. There.

She knew Theon’s mindset was fragile. His heart was tender, but his mind would fracture. Bend. Break. All because of this thing’s existence.

He might be strong. Withstand for a little while; but like a flame that burned to a fire—Theon would lose control. He would never be able to handle a child of Ramsay’s.

She knew it.

So, did he. He had to know it—Somewhere.

The fire glowed on her face. Hand rested where the small bump laid. She wished it were gone. That she never knew. Now, all she could imagine, was Ramsay’s hands as they pinned her.

His promises to give her a present. A gift, in an heir. That he would fill her belly with many Lords, and Ladies. Then he would paw at her, until he forced her to shudder from the pleasure. That, made her sickest of all.

Ramsay could make her bodice react. Even, when she had not wanted it to.

It had.

She could never erase the eve of her wedding to Ramsay from her mind. The cascade of tears down Theon’s cheeks, as he witnessed her dignity being stripped away.

Though, she was attired—Sansa was frozen. Unable to leave her chambers. Unwilling to step outside these walls. She lost track of time.

Nestled, before the fire—Time seemed to hold still.

She did not even react when the wooden door creaked open. Hinges squealing in protest, heavy footfalls against the stone inched nearer. Still, Sansa remained stoic. Eyes trained on the flickering flames.

“Sansa, Are you unwell?” Yanked back from the abyss, by the rasp of Jon’s voice, Sansa startled.

Eyes wide, skin paled—and her heart almost stopped.

Sansa could not have surmised that Jon would come in search of her. So rare was it that he even spoke to her. Since he was still clearing up the aftermath of her decision to wed a broken man.

Was this the Gods punishment for loving Theon?

She felt the thick of it entwined around her heart. Encapsulating her in grief. They would both be forced to look upon the stain of Ramsay’s villainous acts, until their dying days. This reality, was barbarous.

She loved Theon. Clung hold of him, tight. Refused to stand down from her fight to be his—and now, her reality was colliding in on itself.

Calming down slightly, Sansa shifted her optics back toward the licking flames of the fire. Wondering, briefly, if it would be better, if she did not survive at all.

“I am fine.” Piercing, icy tones cut through the air, like a knife.

Jon seemed hesitant for a moment, then realigned his posture. Settling alongside her, on the settee.

“Your husband is wandering the castle. Seeming rather out of sorts. And I find you, alone, in your chambers, looking petrified with fear.” Jon was speaking in careful, soft tones. As though fearful of further spooking her.

There was no possible manner in which, Sansa could be spooked, further. Not now.

“You have just wed, I believed neither of you would be seen for days. What with how potent your attachment to one another, appeared to be.” More careful words. A **joke**.

How she wished that she could settle. Merely fade into the beauty of her husband’s love. Listen as he spoke, and believe him blindly. But she had witnessed Theon’s breakdowns. They were strung out. Oftentimes, abrupt, and without warning. She felt a fallout coming. She felt it in her bones.

“I am pregnant, Jon.” She let the words sear into him. Peered up, to witness the falter in his features. The shock; staggering him.

“You…” His eyes followed a trail to her hand, where it rested over the barely there, bump. “I thought you were loyal to Theon…Who…?”

She turned her face to his. Anger. Fury, written into her eyes. “You think I cheated on my husband?”

Jon gaped.

“It is Ramsay’s!” Sansa hissed.

Terror, wrote into Jon’s eyes. Just like her, Jon had thought the horror of Ramsay’s existence was at an end. The monster was gone. Dead.

But he would live on. Now, and forever.

“Gods…Sansa I am—”

“Do not dare say you are sorry! Do. Not. Dare.” She clenched her teeth. Shot daggers with her eyes. Warning him.

“And Theon…?” Jon’s voice piped up. Rasping with dread.

“I cannot bear to ask this of him. To ask him to father a monster’s child. The monster that took everything from him—from us! He put this awful thing inside of me. I have to grow this…this abomination!” Sansa lashed out. It was the first time she did. The first true reaction.

There was panic. Horror. Fear.

And yet. It was still just an innocent life.

Until it wasn’t. Until it grew to be like Ramsay. To despise everyone, and everything. To wreck Winterfell, and torture other people.

“Hey—Hey listen to me, Sansa.” She felt him draw her into his arms. She fought for several seconds. Before, grasping tight to the leather of his tunic. Sobbing with abandon. “You will survive this. Theon is strong enough to survive this. You cannot shut him out. Not after all you did to have him as your husband. I will be here. Theon will be here. You do not have to endure this on your own.” Jon was speaking. And despite it being quite clear he had no actual grasp on how they might overcome this obstacle, she heard the reassurance in his tone. Felt the sincerity there.

But she knew Theon. Better than anyone. Theon would have left her as a youth. Would have disregarded Ramsay’s spawn as evil. And left her. But Theon of today. Of now. Would break apart, slowly, inside. Until there was nothing left of him. And she feared that above all else.

Feared the loss of him.

This time, for good.

“I cannot. He will break. He will be lost…Theon must be protected, even if it means I have to cut him loose. I am sinking, he does not have to go down with me.” She reasoned.

“You will not sink, I have you. Sansa. I have you.” Jon whispered into her ear. “Tell me what you need. You will have it.”

Sansa was silent for the longest time. Only her sobs echoed. Finally, she knew what was best.

What she needed.

“Keep Theon busy. If he inquires as to why, tell him…Tell him I do not wish to see him for a little while. Will you do that for me?” Wiping her tears with wavering fingers; she leaned back.

“I will” His eyes were dark, haunted. But truthful.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so sorry for the delay on this update! I was working on a Sansa/Theon fanvideo for youtube, and basically lost track of time! Lol!


	15. Part 15; To Wish till You Bleed.

**_Part 15; To Wish till You Bleed._ **

 

* * *

 

> _I hate this feeling._
> 
> _Like I am here but I am not._
> 
> _Like someone cares._
> 
> _But they don’t._
> 
> _Like I belong somewhere else,_
> 
> _Anywhere but here._

* * *

 

**_Theon_ **

The absence of Sansa—Theon felt everywhere.

He had once told her that he was not meant to be a husband. A lover. He was far too broken to react to her touches—but he **did**.

She rediscovered the sexual urges in him, ten-fold. The comfort he could find in a woman’s arms. In **Sansa’s** arms—only **hers**.

And then—Ramsay took it all away. From beyond the grave he reached—And took away Theon’s light.

His hope.

Jon found countless reasons to keep him from Winterfell’s halls. Sent him on errands into the village. Had him on horseback, for days at a time. He had vowed his servitude to House Stark. To Sansa, and Jon, had they need of him.

Which, was how he became Sansa’s nighttime guard, in the first place.

Now, he found the absence of her touch, unbearable. She would not see him. Theon need not ask Jon, to know. His forced absences from Winterfell, told him enough. Enough to shatter his heart. He replayed their wedding night. Turned it over, and over in his mind.

The bliss he felt when she teased him. Touched him just perfectly, until they came apart in time to one another. Had he thought it was a night for her to say goodbye? He might have held her longer. Slept at her side, rather than by the fire, due to the chill in his bones.

He would have savored her.

Now, he imagined how she might scold him, (As she had that night.) if she witnessed his hand rabidly palming his stub. Pushing to find pleasure, from the stress of being alone.

Nights where he pictured his wife, bare, on top of him. Touching him, rubbing against him. And he felt such shame. When he trembled, and came apart from the sheer memory of it.

He wanted to speak to her. To apologize for what he had done.

He was uncertain of his misstep, but he **assumed** it was claiming the child. It was not **his** child. And once the Lords, and Ladies would come to know of her pregnancy—then birth—they would taunt him again.

Insist, that Sansa could not find pleasure in him—So she sought it **elsewhere**.

He could withstand, all of it—this time—if he only could convince her to forgive him.

After the latest wild-goose-chase, he was sent upon; Theon, thought he might freeze to death. His horse had refused to go on. The Earth had been covered in depths of snow—it was apparent—winter **had** come. The blizzard had been so thick, Theon could hardly, see through the falling snow.

More than once, he thought of laying down—letting the storm consume him—but he powered through. He made it back to Winterfell—sans horse.

He could take no more.

He would not go on another pointless rendezvous, at Jon’s behest. If Sansa wanted him out of sight—he would remain out of sight.

Bundled under furs, his freezing joints screamed at him as he huddled near the fire. His chambers were lonely. Even more-so than the roads, themselves. But he thanked the Gods for the warmth of his chambers, all-the-same.

He had decided, long ago—he did not deserve to die.

Ramsay had tormented him for sport. Kicked at him, punched him. Whipped him. Cut him. So many scars littered his body, that he could no longer feel smooth skin, upon his person, anywhere.

Perhaps, Jon was doing the same, in his own manner. After all, whilst Ramsay brutalized Sansa (causing this pregnancy) Theon did nothing to prevent it. To help her. It was his eternal burden to bear. And he did. Bear it.

Sansa, promised he would be free. But he did not feel free. He felt caged. Barred off from the object of his affections, sent on burdensome errands, and all-the-while just hoping she would come to him. And forgive him.

It had been an hour, since he came to the gates. Trembling; half-frozen solid. Helped by servants, whom took pity on him. Bathed in steaming hot water, until the feeling returned to his hands, and feet. And helped into clothing, he had not seen, since first he departed Winterfell, with Robb.

The tunic was loose on him. Breeches, too.

Theon had lost considerable weight, as Reek.

And now—it was difficult to grow the weight back.

Eating was a challenge for him. Ramsay broke several of his teeth whilst torturing him. Tore out back molars, at times, for kicks. His gums were sore. And the lingering depression that surrounded him, also prevented him from incurring an appetite.

Sipping, hot tea, Theon let the liquid, burn down his throat. His hands barely able to grip the mug with any precision.

The wooden door creaked open. And Theon glanced hopefully up, only to find Jon hovering above him.

Almost instantaneously, Theon began to wrack with violent, trembles.

“Please Jon, please…D-Do not make me go b-back out there…I-I…I will n-never go n-near Sansa, again…Just…P-Please…I b-beg you…” His hands unable to grip the mug, let it cascade to the floor. Spilling liquid into a puddle. Tears, blinded his vision, as he descended into distress.

Each time he saw Jon, it was with the intention of sending him out on another errand. Perhaps to collect taxes, or frighten a villager into submission. Whatever, the errand, Theon could not withstand it.

He was so infused with the chill of the winter air; it had nearly become part of him now. His bones, felt frozen solid. He found it impossible to grow warm.

“I am not here, to send you on another errand.” Jon reassured, although the sincerity did not, reach his eyes.

Theon felt momentary, relief, “T-Then…why?”

“I heard you had taken ill. Lost your horse, among other things.” Jon surveyed him with calm, disillusionment. As though, unmoved by the scene before him.

Perhaps, Jon would never find compassion for him. Theon could not possibly blame him for it. Why should he be shown compassion? After all he had done?

“I…did not take ill, I almost d-died…The b-blizzard set upon me, and I-I could n-not…The horse w-would not g-go on.” Theon reached for the fallen mug, planting it on the end-table nearby.

“I see.” Jon seemed out of sorts. Perhaps even out of place.

Theon dared to pipe up, “Is…Is S-my wife, well?” He thought better of speaking her name, so casually. He feared even using the term, **wife**.

Jon’s eyes flashed, almost a dark shade. As though he were hiding something—haunted. But just as quickly, the dark-glimmer departed. “She is well.”

Theon’s eyes lowered at the vague response. He craved any real news of her. Any sighting of her. He had not seen her since the morning after their wedding. Not once. From the servant’s tales; she refused to leave her chambers.

“But she s-still, will not permit me to see her?” Theon spoke in an octave, just above a whisper.

Jon’s eyes hardened. Jaw set. “She needs more time.”

Theon had glanced up, hopefully. Upon hearing Jon’s words; his head dropped, dejected. He gave his all to fight through a storm, to survive. For **her**. And she did not want him.

She would not even come herself to check on him. To warm him…

He had **truly** lost her.

Theon forced himself to nod. Forced himself not to fall apart—again.

“I-I am t-tired…” Theon offered him an out. And Jon took it. Appearing almost relieved to not have to spend more time than he already had, in these chambers.

“Rest, then. You need it.” And with that, Jon disappeared through the door. Swinging it shut in his haste.

Only then, did Theon break apart. Only then—did he shudder with exhaustion—with loss. Only then—did he **finally** , break.

 

* * *

 

 

Theon was unconscious for a long time. The fire was wholly extinguished, only wisps of smoke came off of the ashes. Shuddering, violently, it was the chill that awoke him.

Theon piled a few logs onto the fire, scrambling to reignite the flames. Once it roared back to life, he basked in the warmth. Listened to the familiar crackle.

The sun was long since down, and the night had settled in. He could hear an owl in the distance. And solemnly, he straightened, feeling the ache of his muscles, and bones.

Theon tired, of being alone. Of being so **lonely**.

Aching in his soul for Sansa, he wished she were here. That she would strip him of his clothes, and instruct him to press in near to her, for comfort—For solidarity.

Like before.

He awoke with a throb between his thighs. His stub was awakened by thoughts of her bodice. Naked. Pressed tight to him.

It made him nearly moan, out loud in aggravation. How long would she punish him? He felt sick, with the not knowing. With the vague promise of— **someday**.

Finally, he decided that if he could only speak to her. Just speak—He could be forgiven.

She might finally, **finally** , let him return to her chambers. He might not have to slumber alone.

Theon, made up his mind.

Decidedly, he would sneak into her chambers, (Find a way to bypass the guard) and convince her to allow him to return. She used Jon to belay every message for a reason. Perhaps, she could not deny him to his face.

Theon, cracked open his door. Peered out into the long, darkened corridor.

No one in sight.

Inching his way along the stone, Theon ignored the chill of the cold against his bared feet. Instead, he thought of the warmth of **his** Sansa. His wife’s arms.

Might she embrace him? Kiss him? Tell him she forgave him? He prayed she might.

When he reached her chambers, the door was unmanned. Not a guard in sight. Theon’s brows drew together. If he had known she no longer had a man posted at her door, he might have attempted this feat, sooner.

Undeterred, Theon crept to her door. And opened it. Conscious of the creaky hinges, he was slow to inch it open. Even, more careful, to close it.

The fire was lit in the fireplace, and the only sense of light in the room. But Theon was used to existing in the darkness. As Reek he had been provided very little light to guide his tasks at Winterfell. He memorized this place. Long ago.

Inching near, Theon recognized her silhouette. She was partially uncovered, her breasts on display. Theon grimaced, as his already achy stub tightened, blood pulsing to alert him to his incessant urge to touch her.

Theon reached out to touch her—then recognized **another** silhouette.

His heart dropped into his stomach.

Jon lay sprawled alongside of her. Also partially uncovered by the furs. His shirt absent. Sansa made a slight huff in her sleep. And turned. Right into the nook of Jon’s arm. Jon drew her near, reactively. And her head nuzzled onto his chest. Her hand resting over his heart.

Theon jerked his hand back from where it was frozen, mid-air.

Bile rose in his throat, but he forced it down. Tears engulfed his eyes.

So, **this** is what Jon was hiding.

Sansa’s six moon pregnant, belly pushed outward now. With evident growth of the babe within. Theon bit down, hard on his knuckle to prevent himself from sobbing. He bit until the blood pooled, and ran down his wrist. Until, it soaked into the sleeve of his long-sleeved oversize tunic.

He felt hollow. Gutted out.

Worse than the way he felt when Ramsay took his cock. When he was mutilated everywhere.

Theon hated himself. He hated Ramsay. Jon—Himself.

Most of all himself.

For being such a fool.

His other hand clenched, and dug until blood oozed from his palm. The healed scars, reopened there. And finally—finally, he managed to yank himself away from the scene. Drew open the door, and closed it behind him. He fled to his chambers.

To the fireplace, where he curled on the settee. And sobbed, until his throat was hoarse. His eyes hurt—and his lungs were painful. Until, he thought he might die, from the agony, of his heart breaking. And psyche shredding apart.


	16. Part 16; To Measure Strength of Iron and Wolves.

**_Part 16; To Measure Strength of Iron and Wolves._ **

 

* * *

 

> _No one you love_
> 
> _is ever truly lost._

 

* * *

 

 

**_Sansa_ **

Without Theon, time became irrelevant. Jon did as he vowed. Provided Theon various inane tasks to keep him busy. She could not bear to let Theon see her in this manner.

To be the cause for his break with reality; a second time. She figured if his mind was preoccupied; with time, that he might come to realize the truth of the matter—He could not possibly handle the existence of Ramsay’s child.

She prayed he would choose to save himself. She was unsavable.

Instead, Jon spoke of how Theon always returned from the errands. Always with seeming hope in his eyes.

With no understanding.

This was exceedingly difficult for her. To sleep alone, without the firm press of her husband at her side. But this decision dug deeper than the reason she convinced herself of, as to why she had pushed him away. Much deeper.

It was also her inability to come to terms with Ramsay’s violation of her flesh, resulting in this, pregnancy.

Still, she saw her loving husband, stood on the grass before her. Binding their wrists together, speaking those sacred vows. They were still bound. She felt bound to Theon.

And she always would.

Each time she viewed him from the windowpane, riding off at Jon’s behest, she regarded him with a solemn ache. Wondered if he might decide, not to return.

Yet, he always did.

Always.

Eating became a chore for her. Nibbling at bits of food, enough to keep herself alive, was all she could manage. Without Theon there, Sansa found all she had was loneliness. And empty chambers to gawk at.

Settled near the fire most days; She listened.

Waited for Jon to bring her news of the Lords, and Ladies. News of the realm in tandem. She was hungry for a distraction, for anything to clear her mind from her husband. From the way her bodice ached for Theon’s touch. Burned for his kisses.

Each night, without the warmth of Theon’s arms to comfort her; she laid awake. Dark circles penetrated the underside of either eye. When she previously believed herself safely out of reach from Ramsay—She found she was not. Now, each noise petrified her again. Most nights, she would descend into tears.

Mourn for the life she believed—once—that she might lead. That after every atrocious thing that occurred during the war, she might finally find peace with Theon. With herself. Curing what was broken in him, became her quest. Repairing the damage to their relationship, done in the fields as youth—had been **everything**.

Still, when she closed her eyes, she could recall those memories. Innocent, peaceful, days. When he would give chase, and she taunt him with batting eyelashes.

How she wished she could rewind. Tell herself never to leave him. Never to let him frighten her away.

But the past is the past. And the present was repulsive.

Unkind.

Jon sent him on the longest journey, yet. Nearly a two-week errand toward the wall, and back. It was to check in on multiple farmers, near there. An effort to finally convince Theon that he did not want this life. Not her life. He did not marry her with the knowledge of her pregnancy.

Of the horror that came with it.

She had vowed to provide him love, affection, joy—happiness.

None of that would occur, now. Not possible.

Once, she told Jon that without Theon, there could be no one. And she meant it. Her heart was thoroughly broken. She broke it to save, Theon. And herself.

When two weeks went, without Theon’s return, Sansa wondered if the decision was made. The decision to leave—never to return.

It haunted her.

The lengths she went to, in order to ensure, Theon’s departure from alongside of her.

Sansa knew Winterfell servants were becoming worried for her immediate health. In fact, Sansa could hear their whispers just outside the door. Hushed tones, spoken to Jon. In the hope he might convince her to eat more.

Her cheeks were slightly sunken in. Arms, bone-thin. Skin pale—sickly. And her eyes nearly, always red from crying. As the roundness of her belly grew with each day that passed, Sansa’s spirits only fell farther.

Nearer, and nearer—this spawn came to arriving. Soon, she would have to mother it. Nurse it at her breast. Kiss it—love it. How could she love this **thing**? How?

She did not wish to be spoken of as though she were no longer alive. As though she were not concerned in the matter of her own health. It irritated her, to know Jon was privy to the servant’s comments. Could he not see for himself, what she was now? Pathetic.

Like Theon had been, when first she laid eyes on him.

 **Hopeless**.

Sansa, chewed her nails, down to the quick, lost the light in her scarlet-red hair. Felt all else dwindle. And on the third week of Theon’s absence, Jon came to her. Worrisome expression on his face. Hair unkempt, clothes straightened, hastily.

She barely chanced a glance at him.

“Sansa.” His voice was soft, but firm.

“What do you want?” Her skin prickled.

“You cannot continue to refuse food, Sansa. Nor refuse to sleep at night.”

She wiped a stray tear, absently. “You think I choose this, Jon? It makes me physically ill to be without Theon. To carry, Ramsay’s evil, twisted, spawn inside of me! I cannot bear to look at my husband. Do you know that, Jon? That is why I pleaded for you to send him away. He would be disgusted with the sight of me. And he would break, and crack, with guilt for letting Ramsay hurt me in the first place. I know he will. I know it, in my soul. So do not tell me, what I cannot do, Jon. Do not pretend that you care.” Her head turned back away, obstinately.

Jon stood before her, still resigned to attempt to dissuade her from this decision.

“You will die, Sansa. You will not survive the birth.” He reasoned.

For a moment, she gave a faint, trace of a smile. “Then I shall die. At least it shall not be at the hands of Ramsay’s monster.”

Jon’s face fell. And for the first time, in her presence—She saw him falter with pure emotion. “If you die—If I lose you—” His voice cracked.

Sansa’s eyes traveled back to Jon. Sudden sympathy surged a pain into her stomach.

“Sansa—We are all that is left…”

Understanding hit her. Jon was afraid to be alone. Just the same as she was. Just as she had always been. Struggling into a standing position, Sansa crossed the stone, to reach him. And drew him into her embrace.

She felt him nuzzle against her skin. Kiss the nape of her neck, where his mouth touched. And she shivered from the sensation. It had been nearly two months since her wedding night. Two months, since she last felt Theon, in her arms. And now—now she feared, she never would feel him again.

She was meant to be alone, with a psychotic bastard’s child in her belly.

This was her fault. Had she made a different decision—not followed Littlefinger blindly into the lion’s den—she never would have been bitten.

Never impregnated.

Pulling back from the warmth of Jon’s arms, her fingers rested on his chest.

The sleepless nights were dampening her mood. And slowly, edging her toward the brink of death. Helping to deprive her of her appetite, and all her other senses. She felt, ill. All the time.

Faulty, in spirit.

Without words, nimble fingers began to unlace the ties of Jon’s leather tunic. Firm, strong hands gripped her wrists, to still them.

“Sansa…?”

She yanked her wrists free, shoving the leather off of his shoulders, down onto the floor. His upper-half was exposed to her eyes. With delicate, tracing fingertips, Sansa glided over the scars, where the blades had pierced rough skin. Feeling the ridges there. The imperfections of his flesh. The knowledge that he had been dead, once—and yanked back from the blackness, where he lingered—caused her distress.

Jon had almost been departed. She had nearly been rendered an orphan, with no ties to her family, left.

Sansa listened, as his breath turned, ragged. Darkened pools, met her Tully-blue ones. Without words, she proceeded to undress him. Unlacing his breeches, next. Letting them pool at his ankles. Her eyes traveled down to his manhood. Jon was pink-cheeked. His flush scattering down to his neck.

In one swift movement, Sansa stripped off her nightdress. Letting the flimsy material cascade to the stone, in billowing movements.

Her nipples grew erected in the night-chill. Her pregnant belly swollen, and breasts enlarged.

Jon’s eyes traveled over her form. She watched him turn from pink, to red. Completely, at a loss for words.

Still, without speech, she gripped his hand, guiding him toward the bed their father used to share with her mother. Jon hesitated. As though, suddenly aware of what she was doing.

“I cannot…” Jon all but whispered.

Sansa peeled back the furs. Climbing underneath them, with as much grace as her pregnant belly, permitted. “Please Jon?” Her grip, held tight to his. Her eyes, pleading for him to understand, what she needed.

“Theon loves you. He is your husband…”

Sansa’s eyes slanted. Skin, paled. “I told you, once. The comfort I sought in Theon.” She admitted.

“I am your brother…” Jon reasoned.

Sansa’s eyes saddened. “So was Robb.”

Jon’s eyes widened, almost speechless. “And he…You would…?”

Jon struggled to speak the words outright, which only made Sansa smile, slightly. Giggle. It was the first time she felt so much joy in making her elder half-brother squirm.

Jon gawked. Perhaps unable to believe that she was genuinely laughing. Smiling, like she would as a young girl.

She could not recall the last time she laughed—at anything.

“You have always been gullible, Jon. Very gullible.” She hummed, shifted on the bed, and winced as a pain shot through her side.

“Robb did not bed me, if that is what you are asking.” She managed to speak, after the sharp pain subsided. “Lay down with me.” She made a low hum in her throat, impatiently.

Finally, Jon complied. He made sure their flesh did not touch. He was far away from her on the sheets. “Robb used to tell me that when we laid together, bare, then there were no secrets between us.” She closed her eyes at the memory. Wistfully, longed for her eldest brother’s touch. His skin always felt warm, loving, against her own. They shared blood-ties that she never would, to Theon. His breath, full in his lungs. His heart rapid, strong, like a direwolve’s “I would lay in his bed, almost every night. Sleep in his arms, and I always felt so safe. Even when he was a man, and I was still so young, he would let me lie with him. I grew to need his strength, to rest. And with all that happened to me—all that Ramsay did—I could not rest, not until I invited Theon into my chambers that first night. And I cannot rest, now. I am afraid, Jon.”

He was silent, sympathy wrote onto his features.

He inched toward her, until her belly, met his own.

“If you need me to hold you, I will hold you, Sister.” Jon breathed out.

She nodded, “I will get no better, until I have a man’s arms, once more. You are the only one, apart from Theon, that can still make me feel safe.”

Jon was quiet for a moment. She leaned in, and kissed the corner of his mouth. Letting the softness of the moment, allure her. It was chaste. Innocent. Reassuring.

And Jon, relaxed his taut muscles. “I know not, how I achieve that feat.” Jon admitted.

“You are Lord of Winterfell, now. You make everyone feel safe.” Sansa reasoned; her eyes gently lingered on his.

Suddenly, Sansa felt it. A flutter. Vicious. Poignant. Harsh. Then another.

Panic settled into her heart.

Before, she could pretend that the swollen bulge of her belly was just that—a swollen bulge—but now…now she felt that thing— **move**.

 ** _Kick_**.

“What?” Jon’s eyes widened. “What is wrong?”

Sansa covered her face with her hands, beginning to sob. It was strong—the child. With kicks that firm—there was no chance it would perish. Some sliver of her, had still hoped it might.

Jon drew her in until she was tight to his front. Crushed into his chest. And still, she sobbed.

“I-It k-kicked…I-It is m-moving…” Hiccupped, explanations came to light. And Jon’s eyes fell, to her belly. He must have felt them too. The kicks started—and did not cease.

Not especially as she panicked.

“Shh—calm down, Sansa. Please…The babe will only grow more agitated. You need to calm down.” He stroked long fingers through thick tresses of hair. And she heard his soothing words.

By no means—was she soothed.

There was several minutes of her breakdown. It took lots of soothing words for her to finally, dissipate from her distress. And Jon, offered her cheek kisses, and promises that he was ‘ _here_ ’ as reassurance.

What he did not understand, was Ramsay was there, too. Ramsay would always **be** there.

As long as this **thing** , grew stronger.

She was not safe.

 

* * *

 

 

Every night from that first, Sansa spent in Jon’s warm embrace. Huddled near for comfort; affection. His direwolf at their feet; And their secrets were shared, in the privacy of her chambers. Jon sent the guards from her door, after the first night. He wished for no one to know of their nighttime comfort. And she readily agreed with him.

It would be devastating were anyone to believe she was spreading her thighs for him.

Even worse if rumors traveled to Theon—wherever he happened to be.

Though as it turned out; She did not have long to wonder.

Theon returned. Half-dead. Shivering. And exhausted. It was Jon she sent to speak with him. She could not face him—his debacle on the road; was **her** fault. She ordered Jon to keep him from her. What would Theon say if she were to go to him? How could she ever apologize for seeking the warm, nudity of Jon, when she believed he finally, left her?

That night, as Jon recalled to her, Theon’s persistence on inquiring about her—she knew. Knew he would never give up. Not until this reality killed him. It was devasting to Sansa.

She resigned to having a conversation with him, the next day.

It was **time**.

When morning light shone through her chambers, Sansa reached out. Long fingers, met the soft furs—Jon was gone.

Cracking her eyes open, Sansa felt dismayed at his absence, but thought better of complaint.

Jon was needed. And soon—soon he would have to wed a Lady.

There could be no more nights like this one. Especially once she spoke to Theon. Her husband may never forgive her, but she would seek it out, regardless. For her misguided acts. She knew now, Theon would not go.

There was no manner in which she could convince him to leave her.

And when she felt that monstrosity kick inside of her—she recognized just how desperately she wanted it to be Theon’s arms comforting her. Not Jon’s.

How she ached for her husband. Her Theon. Only he could make her flesh burn, and kindle to life. Make her susceptive to needful moments of passion. And love. Their wedding night was forever seared into her heart. She loved him. **Only** him, this way. Denying it would do neither of them a bit of good.

She dressed, and tidied her hair. Before stepping out into the hallway. She noticed a few servants hold in shock—none had seen her leave her chambers in months.

Anxiously, she headed toward Theon’s chambers. Felt heat in her belly. And the firm, kick of the **thing** inside of her. She swallowed down bile, and proceeded.

Until, she rounded the corner. Jon was hunkered over, whispering to one of the guards. “—Make sure Sansa does **not** hear of this—she is very fragile—"

Quirking her eyebrow, Sansa inched nearer. “Hear of what, pray-tell, Brother?” Jon jumped, turning quickly on his heel.

“—Find him—now!” She heard Jon whisper harshly, and the guard nodded, departing with evident relief.

Sansa saw a piece of parchment in his hand. Wrinkled from handling, but newly written.

“What is that?”

“It is nothing, Go back to your chambers, Sister.” Jon responded in an even tone.

She was not having his bossiness. Not today.

Surging forward, she snatched the parchment from him. And unfurled it.

She recognized the untidy, shaking scrawl, as what remained of Theon’s handwriting, post-Ramsay. Dribbled blood stains, also marked portions of the page. Sansa glanced up to Jon, horrified; guided her eyes back down.

Then read:

 

_‘Sansa,_

_I know now, why you do not wish to see me. I vowed, once, to let you go, if ever you found comfort in another man, that I could not give you. This broken body could never give you what a whole one, must. I meant to give you comfort, not pain, Sansa. So, I understand why you will not see me. I no longer provide you the comfort you once sought. And I can not bear to stay. I never asked you to bear the burden of fixing me. There is not enough of me left to fix. But I tried for you, Sansa. **Always** for you. You asked me once, if I ever truly believed that we might wed one day—I lied to you, Sansa. ~~When I was whole~~ When I was a man, I believed that I would ask for your hand. And that you would one day become mine. I never foresaw that we would become so distant from who we once were. You saved me, Sansa. For a time. But nothing can last indefinitely. I prayed one day you might seek to forgive that I offered to claim Ramsay’s baby, but I recognize now, that no child born to any woman is mine to claim. Not even, yours. I will never be a father, but you will be a mother, Sansa. I pray Jon gives your baby a loving father figure, such as Ned was to me. Do not mourn for me, every day I live, I do so in pain, Sansa. I love you._

_-Theon’_

 

She could not breathe. That was the first sensation. She could not bring in air.

Her knees crumbled from underneath her. She felt herself falling, but never met the floor. Arms caught her. Jon’s arms. This could not happen.

Not again.

She could not lose another person. Not **one** more.

She was wretched. Horrid. And she knew that now. She tried to give him an out—but not this. Never this.

She felt her skin crawl from Jon’s touch. Theon knew…How did Theon know? Who told him?

It was not what he believed, there was no intimacy. No pleasure. Only the same comfort, Robb offered her. Just warm arms. Body heat. It was not—Jon could never be more…

Sansa felt filthy. Theon could not leave this world, believing she had betrayed him. She would never betray him. Not this way. It was for sleep. So, she might set Jon’s mind to rest. Not for the intimacy of it. If Theon was gone…if he already left this world...

She could not—would not believe it.

Not until she saw his body for herself.

“D-Do not touch me!” She shrieked, shoving at Jon’s chest. Tears fell unabated down her cheeks.

“You must sit down. You cannot stay standing, Sansa. You have had a shock…”

“Have I, Brother? Have I **_truly_**?!” She shouted. “And when were you going to give me this letter? Not at all? A year from now?” She spat, furious. But there was no time.

She had to find Theon. She had to **_find_** him!

Shoving Jon out of her path, she stormed from his sight. Seeking out Theon’s bedchambers, she found his sword, armor, and few belongings in place. Panic, ensued. Before now, she still held hope he might have simply left Winterfell.

_He would never leave her._

Those words that once comforted her, now chilled her to her core.

Rushing from his bedchamber, she ignored the frantic kicks of her child, as she rushed through the castle. Searching every room with abandon. Seeking him out, frantically.

Suddenly, she stopped dead.

No. He could **not** be.

But she knew where he was. She **_knew_**.

Hurrying from the castle, out into the snow; she ignored the baffled stares from Winterfell’s people. She stormed into the abandoned pens, straight down until she sought out the very last one. Where Theon, once slept.

There, tears rolling down his cheeks. The tattered cloth he wore at Ramsay’s insistence donned his figure. He was crestfallen. Red circles around his eyes, gave way to darker ones. Flushed cheeks, so red they resembled tomatoes. Theon was caked in dirt from the pen, how long had he been down here?

With instant recognition she saw the knife to his neck. A serrated blade, that nicked the skin. Upon seeing her, his right hand began to drag the blade. And she screamed. Lurching forward she wrenched the blade from his hand. And threw it, far away. Clear across the pen, where it clattered onto the stone.

Sansa landed clumsily onto his lap. Witnessed the small trail of blood that fell from the inch-long cut on his neck. It was not deep—he would live.

Still, in her frantic need for him to be okay, she leaned in. Suckling the skin of his neck. Taking in his blood on her tongue. Kissing the skin when the blood was swiped away. She heard a low moan from him. And his shoulders wracked with sobs. “E-Even t-this I c-could not d-do right…” Theon sobbed in defeat.

Sansa thanked the Gods up above for their mercy. For sparing her time to find her beloved, before he took himself from her.

She cupped either cheek with her hands. Tasted the crimson of his blood on her tongue. But she savored that iron-taste. Theon’s blood almost ran cold.

His skin would have never warmed again. His heart would have stopped.

These truths chilled her, bodily. “Forgive me, Theon. Will you not forgive me? I did not bed Jon, I promise you, I did not.”

He shuddered. “I saw you in bed with him. I saw it. You were bare. Whether he was inside of you, or not, you **_laid_** with him…As you laid with me…”

It was her turn to shudder. “It was as I did with Robb, no more. Jon offered body heat so that I might find sleep. Nothing more.” Tilting up her chin she kissed him. “You are my husband. I vowed my bodice to you. You alone, Theon. I meant to seek you out this morning. I came to find you.” Sansa sniffled.

“W-Why? You d-do not want m-me. You h-have not s-spoken to me since our w-wedding night. You b-betrayed me.”

“I do, Theon. I gave you an out. I willed you to depart, before this child destroyed us both, but you never left. You were never going to leave me. I know that now, Theon. I do. And I have not betrayed you. I never betrayed you…” Her skin burned.

His eyebrows furrowed, but he gave no indication that he desired to argue.

“No, Sansa…I will never leave you.” He vowed, hopefulness in his tear-filled eyes for the first time.

"You will be a father, Theon. I vow to you.” Sansa lifted his hand, guided it to the swollen, space. It still made her ill to know who the child’s real father was. But she would see Theon, smile again. She needed to.

Sansa recognized further blood flowing from the cut on his neck. And again, she leaned forward. Lapping the red liquid up. He moaned again.

“S-Sansa…” He whined.

She smiled through the haze of tears.

“Husband. Have you touched **there**?” He knew where.

His cheeks pinked. And he did not answer.

Suddenly, the need of the last two months collided in on her, all at once. Spoken words could wait. This urge could not. She was swollen in her breasts from carrying a babe. Sensitive, engorged between her thighs, and needy with heat. Being pressed to Theon’s lap, only reminded her of what she no longer had, without him for months.

“Do you need to touch?” She knew the answer.

He shuddered.

She inched nearer—then pressed down hard on his stub. Directly through the fabric of his breeches. She felt it. Hard. Already swelling with blood. Needy.

And she too—was needy.

She cared not, that she vowed to Jon that she would not rut with her husband in these pens. She did not care who might find them. So, let them be found—she would have her husband—and she would not wait one instant more.

“How quickly will you come undone, if I touch you?”

He burned in his cheeks.

She tested her theory that he would not last at all. Hand slid just underneath, scratchy fabric, her index finger found his swollen stump. Firmly, Sansa pushed on the delicate, sweet spot. Just at the tip. Theon cried out, in quick succession, he throbbed. It was seconds. And he came. Rutting on her finger. Lust dilated his pupils.

Theon lost control. He tore her dress. Clean off. Tattered it to shreds. Pushed her clear against the pen’s filthy hay. Kissed her with vigor. Tweaking her nipples with his thumb, and index, she squealed in pleasant surprise. It stung. Burned. And felt like bliss. Sensations from her nipple, traveled straight to her pleasure pearl.

“F-Fuck…T-Theon…” She was beside herself. She tore his clothes off, impatiently. Shredded them, as he shredded hers.

“Rut against me, Theon, I want to feel my husband.” She insisted. Tully-blue eyes mindful of his still throbbing, stub.

He complied. Pushed the throbbing thing just against her pleasure button. And rutted. Working himself with urgency against her. Thrusting. Grunting. Kissing. Dignity was lost on them both, in this moment.

The babe kicked inside of her. Hard enough to heighten the sensation. Theon took a teat between his lips. Suckled, for a long window of time. And moaned.

She twined her fingers in his curls. And tugged. Earning another moan. Sansa felt the build in her abdomen burst. This time, wetness sprayed out. Coated them both in the liquid. It was her turn to flush with color.

Had she just wet herself?

Theon gasped, and moaned.

His stub twitched in release a second time. And he collapsed on top of her.

“What just…” Sansa spoke in hushed tones.

Theon made a low noise in his throat, detaching from her nipple.

A lopsided grin crossed his cheeks, only for a moment, then dissipated. “When I was with other women…at times I could goad them into spraying me. If I took them hard enough. I never thought—I would feel that again.” Theon admitted.

“You mean…It is normal?”

He nodded. “Occasionally.”

She heaved with breath, feeling lightheaded from their actions.

“Promise you will never leave me a note like that again. Vow to me, Theon.”

He nodded; all traces of joy gone. “I vow it, Sansa.”

She accepted his words; in sincerity.


	17. Part 17; To Fade into Time Past

**_Part 17; To Fade into Time Past_ **

* * *

 

> _Broken things like me_
> 
> _are better alone._

* * *

 

**_Reek_ **

_Six months ago._

_Shrieks wracked unimpeded throughout Sansa’s chambers. So loud, echoes coursed down the hall. Servants hurried on, unwilling to hear their Lady in debilitating pain._

_Reek flinched._

_No one had paused to consider **his** screams. The brutalization of **his** flesh._

_The loss of his—_

_He could not think of it._

_He was not that person any longer. Never. Never would he be again._

_Once—He could not recall—he might have had a name…been a man?_

_Sansa. Warm, bountiful, Sansa. With her blue optics that reminded him of the ocean waves as they crashed ashore. She would plead for a man that was no more._

_Theon._

_She would speak that name at him. Persist he was a man._

_He was not a man. Never a man. Just a Reek. Disgusting. Smelly. Cock-less. Reek._

_Still, he shattered the goblet; clumsy (remaining) fingers, slipped. Ceramic met stone. Coming apart into microscopic pieces. Reek shuddered._

_With aching bones, he bent over double. Retrieving the pieces from whence they landed. Cutting his fingers on sharp, edges. Blood mixing in with the shattered bits on the stone. Tears pricked at his eyes._

_His right hand, had missing fingers. As did his left. His pinkie, and index on his left. And middle on his right. Gone. Flashes of his intact fingers drawing the string of a bow, arrow attached, came to mind. He shoved the memory down. No one else was here. Only Reek._

_Cleaning the mess, Reek returned to the kitchens. Discarding the broken pieces into the rubbish bin. Glancing solemnly down at his cut-up fingers. Pain was all relevant now. When night came—there would be pain. Ramsay liked to see Reek’s pain. His despair._

_Hurrying from the kitchens, Reek hobbled. Cramps jolting to every muscle of his foot. Right up into the joints. His bone still had not healed. It was jutted inward at an odd angle on top of his foot. Excruciating pain would ensue, as the bone attempted to heal, without being properly aligned._

_Reek peered around the bend. Silence now pierced the corridor. Still, it was abandoned. All servants gone. Ramsay, must have gone, too. His victim done with._

_With trembling wrists, Reek pulled the jangling keys from the pocket of his rags. Shuddering with abandon, as he clicked the lock open. He wanted to see the sanguine-haired dream. When she goaded him to admit a truth against Ramsay’s express permission—her attitude changed. Softened toward him._

_Reek ached when he saw her. Her familiarity. It was ancient. But he braved, Ramsay’s wrath to check in on her._

_Master would not be happy. But Reek chanced it._

_Sansa jolted upon hearing the door creak. Wild-eyes locked on his. Recognition came; and he limped to her bedside. He touched over her skin, where bruises ornamented her once, pure flesh. Traces of his blood stained her skin._

_Despite the stench that permanently clung to him, Sansa drew him into her arms. And drank him in._

_Reek’s back stiffened. Skin crawled. His stench was potent. He stank of the pen he slept in. Soiled hay. Hound feces. Unwashed male. And most potently, human urine. He leaked often, unable to make it to a privy, or chamber pot—and Ramsay only gave him two sets of rags. Forbidden from washing either, but once a month—he felt self-conscious, with Sansa._

_Separating from her touch; Reek’s eyes dropped. It stung him to touch her. But to look upon her—was a treat._

_Pain flashed in her eyes. And she lowered back onto the bed-furs. “T-Theon.”_

_He flinched._

_“R-Reek, My Lady.” He often corrected her. Let her understand there was no one else. Just what Ramsay made of him._

_“H-Help m-me...” Each night, he could, he came to fill the space at her bedside. And every night she pleaded the same of him. Help._

_There was no help. No help coming. No help to have. Even this kindness, he provided her, could potentially come at a price._

_Reaching out, Theon linked his disfigured right hand, with her unharmed, left one. Her middle finger scraped over the calloused nub where his middle used to be. Before._

_“Look what he has done to me, Theon.” Reek’s haunted sea-green optics trained on her face. Ramsay had marked her pretty face with bruises. Purplish-blemishes the size of fingertips had pressed in on creamy skin. Peppered all along her shoulders, around her throat. Choking was one of Ramsay’s favorite games._

_Reek shuddered._

_Sansa lowered her hand, drew up her nightdress. Reek’s eyes widened. Head shook. He did not desire to see her bare. Not with the ache it would bring. Aches Reek should not have. He was not a man. Not human. Just one of the hounds._

_His eyes adverted. “M-My L-Lady.” Pleas flooded the air._

_Flinching. Twitching. Reeks mind went blank._

_Cuts littered Lady Sansa’s flesh. Poisoned her purity. Bruises. Angry red-risen lengths of cuts were prominent. All-consuming. Reek had similar renditions of those marks. Worst of which, was a stubby part distended from his groin._

_Her hand entwined around his wrist. Drew his mutilated hand to graze her equally marred skin. Just at that instant. The door burst open. Ramsay stood, perched in the doorway. Reek lurched back. Tumbled onto his bum. And cowered._

_“What have we here, Reek? Are you playing with my toy, without permission? Hm?” Sadistic connotations laced his icy, voice._

_“M-Master…N-No. C-course not…Forgive m-me, M-Master.”_

_Sansa lowered her nightdress, having sat up. Her back was rigid against the headboard. Eyes darting around helplessly._

_“I m-made him. He has d-done nothing.”_

_“Silence, whore! I will deal with you, later. But I think Reek here needs to learn a thing or two, more about obedience. Don’t you Reek?”_

_Reek shivered. “P-Please…”_

_“Say please, one more time, and I will make you wish you had not.” Ramsay spewed in a bored tone. Icy-blue eyes landed on Reek._

_Reek fell silent. Wringing his hands until they cramped._

_“Come along, Reek.”_

_Reek followed. Head down, eyes unable to meet Sansa’s, directly out of her bedchambers. Surrendering the keys entrusted to him, by Ramsay without need to be asked._

_He did not chance even one more glance in Sansa’s direction._

_Not even one._

* * *

 

_“Reek, Reek, Reek…You have disappointed me.” Ramsay relinquished an exasperated sigh. Several minutes later, leather straps secured wrists, and ankles to the ‘X’ where Reek had been born._

_Terror-stricken, wide-eyes focused on Ramsay’s dark silhouette in the low lighting of the Winterfell dungeon._

_Ragged tunic had been stripped from him. Burned in the fire nearby. Ramsay wielded a knife. The blade jagged, easily able to tear skin, if applied, just right._

_Reek whimpered, “P-Please—”_

_“What did I say about that word? How I despise that word.” Ramsay’s fist connected with his jaw. Hard. Blood oozed from his mouth, as he cut his lip on his teeth. Drooling, Reek’s jaw slackened a cracked bit of tooth fell to the stone._

_Reek sobbed, crimson-drool coating his chin. “I d-did not m-mean to t-touch her, M-My L-Lord.”_

_“You know. I wonder what reason you would have to be in my wife’s chambers, alone, Reek. You smell, repulsive. And you could not possibly fuck her with that little stub I left you with. Now could you?”_

_Reek turned his head, and sobbed. Twitched._

_“I asked you a question, Reek.” Ramsay made a firm grip through his birches. Clenched his fingers tight enough to make Reek, squeal._

_What was left down there, still palpitated on occasion. Still healed, from the cauterization, after Ramsay cut him._

_“N-No, I c-cannot f-f-fuck her.” Tones of agreement parted instantly. He would say anything so as not to lose another slice of his body—But there was no preventing it._

_“I think you need to be reminded of your place, Reek. Would you not say so?” Ramsay’s face upturned in a stomach-churning smirk._

_This time Ramsay did not await an answer. Merely carved a chunk out of his side, as penance._

_Reek squealed. Shrieked, until his voice turned high-pitched. And whiny._

_When it was over, Ramsay cut him down. Reek stumbled on his feet; tears rimmed his optics._

_“Come, Reek.”_

_Reek followed. Shirtless. Bleeding. Through corridors, past unmoved servants—right into the snow-laden outdoors. Coated in a thin sheen of snow. Reek’s remaining teeth, chattered. Hands grazed over goose-pimpled arms._

_Even the shelter of the hound pens was still icy, cold. Reek went rigid as Ramsay guided him toward the pen, he slept in. Suddenly, aware of his intentions. “M-My Lord…Please…” Reek pleaded._

_Steely eyes pierced through to his soul. He spoke **that** word. “Get on your knees, Reek.”_

_Snot trekked in long streaks down his upper-lip. Spittle dribbled from his slightly agape jaw. His inner-mouth still bled from the cut, and broken tooth._

_“NOW!” Reek dropped, pitifully._

_Ramsay’s rough, coarse fingers dug into Reek’s flesh. Spun him around, with no patience. Reek attempted to crawl away—if only to save himself the dignity of this—but his defiance only angered Ramsay further. Pinning Reek’s face into the hay, Ramsay tugged his breeches round his knees._

_Without warning—nor preparation—the blunt end of Ramsay’s cock seared, and tore open his rear entrance. His anal muscles clamped; hard down in protest. Which only caused further distress to Reek._

_The pain was the worst it had ever been. Blood dribbled down, leaking on his skin. Ramsay moaned._

_“If you could feel how tight you are, Reek. You would know you were made to be my little hound bitch. You were **never** made to be inside a woman’s cunt, especially not Sansa’s. You were made to be **used** like one, instead.” _

_Reek squealed in pain—Humiliation. Being torn for Ramsay’s pleasure, exceedingly took its toll. Especially, tonight. Tonight, was the worst it had ever been. Disfigured hands curled into tight fists in the straw. Drool, soaked into the foul, scented straw. And Ramsay made a point of dragging, explorative fingertips over his carefully, shaved, pelvis._

_“Soft…just like a woman.” Ramsay, taunted. Rutting with abandon into Reek’s torn sphincter._

_The pain exceeded his tolerance—the humiliation, too. Something had to give._

_And it did._

_Reek felt urine spray his legs. Drenching the hay; and his half-mast birches._

_Descending into sobs, Reek let his mind go. His thoughts detach—quivering with violence, from the frigid cold, Reek prayed to freeze to death._

_To let it be over._

_Everything be over._

_“Filthy. Incontinent, hound!” Ramsay pinched his stub—hard enough to make him bleed there._

_It drew him back—even if he did not want to be present._

_He was **made** to be._

_He felt all of it. Up until Ramsay spilled inside of him. Hot seed pumped into him. And he was kicked, right down, into his own filth. Onto his still throbbing—and bleeding—stub._

_Ramsay straightened his own breeches. Tucked himself, away—and sought out the corner where Reek’s spare rags were kept. Lifting Reek’s second pair of breeches, Ramsay rounded on him. “You will stay in your own piss. Do you hear me, Reek? You will wear them for a **week**! And maybe, if I feel you have been **punished** enough, I will give this back to you.” He dangled the non-soiled pair in front of Reek’s tear-stained face._

_Reek was still slumped. Rear end in the air. Smelling of his own accident, and Ramsay’s pungent, salty-seed._

_“S-Sorry.”_

_“No. You are not sorry yet, but you will be. Now, return to Lady Sansa’s chambers. You are to bathe her, immediately.” With that, the keys were thrown onto Reek’s crumpled tunic._

_Reek’s eyes widened in horror. Sansa would see him…like **this** …before he had a chance to even dry…?_

_He willed himself not to plead. Not to beg for mercy. There was never any mercy._

**_Never_ ** _._

* * *

 

_Countless minutes it took, for Reek to find his footing. To manage the feat of pulling up his sodden breeches, to press against his bleeding stub. The acrid liquid stung him. Irritated his bleeding part. His gums hurt—inner cheek was swelling from the cut—and his last—undamaged—upper molar was now jagged._

_Reek broke down against the unforgiving wall of the pen. So cold, his skin was blue. But Reek was also so numb—he could not feel his upper-half—and that was the only sense of mercy he knew. The sliced off slab of his side, had not yet, scabbed over. He tugged on his now— **only** —tunic, and exited from his pen. Walking with a sort of waddling--hobble from the unrelenting ache of his sphincter._

_He learned._

_Ramsay taught—Reek **learned**._

_Sansa was too pretty to look at, and fantasize about. Too ravishing. And he was nothing. A hound. A monstrosity._

_Incontinent._

_He was whatever Ramsay **made** him._

_Repulsed by his stench; the servants gave him a wide birth. Children pointed in quiet giggles. Soldiers barely contained a smirk of supremacy. Even kitchen wenches hid behind their hands to staunch laughter._

_Reek’s eyes lined with tears. But he made no move to speak. Once—in another life—he would have flirted. Had those females on their backs for him. Fawning over him. Now—_

_He hurried to his designation._

_The bath water was already steaming. Sansa, already undressing. She stilled, before him._

_Reek violently trained his eyes to the stone. His body ached with more than one reminder of why this too—was a punishment for him._

_To look upon Sansa’s form—was Ramsay’s cruel ploy to further his humiliation. As though rutting him into the pens until he lost control was not humiliation enough._

_“M-My L-Lady…I have c-come to b-bathe you.” Monotone. Unemotional words hung in the air._

_Ramsay could be spying—Reek felt there were ears in the very walls themselves. Eyes too._

_Tully eyes traveled from his face—to his breeches. She could probably scent him from clear across the room. “Theon? What…What did he do to you? Did you—” She froze. “Have you had an accident?”_

_Humiliation ebbed straight up his spine. When she came nearer—he lurched back. “Not T-Theon…M-My Lady. P-Please. I h-have to b-bathe you.”_

_He could not bear for her to touch him. He did not seek to touch her—it was Ramsay’s insistence that locked him here._

_Sansa lowered her reaching hand. Stepped, soundlessly toward the wooden bathing tub. And sank beneath the water’s surface._

_A sigh of discontentment shuddered from her petals._

_With precise movements, Reek forced his wrecked body to kneel. The pain was excruciating. Wincing, he grasped the rim of the tub to steady himself. When the tugging pain from both his lower back—and rear-end settled—He sighed in momentary easement._

_Reek set to work, bathing her with the fine cloth of a rag. Taking care to brush every inch of her that Ramsay brutalized. And in his mind, wishing that he could be bathed. His repugnant odor made his stomach, constantly turn. Just the heat of the bath water against his hand, was a comfort. A relief, from the chill of the pen, he would succumb to, once finished here._

_Once, he took these soaks for granted. Now—he wished he could just be granted **one** bath—and **clean** clothes to wear._

_He ached—everywhere. He made little grunts, and groans—the longer he knelt, the chilled fabric of his ragged breeches causing him to shiver. He was so cold—so very cold—and the bath water, so warm._

_So, tempting._

_Sansa curled her fingers around his hand. “Theon—You are shaking like a leaf.” Startled—he dropped the rag into the water._

_He was—Shaking that is. He was chilled to the bone. Reek twitched; eyes closing. Made a low noise in the rear of his throat. Then reopened them. Struggling into a standing position. He retracted his hand, as though burned._

_She was **clean** now. His punishment was at an end. He learned **not** to touch her. Never to sneak in here.  Not to feel anything for her. Even her nose had turned up at his scent. He was a repulsive being, Ramsay made certain he was._

_He learned specifically, not to **love** her—like **Theon** once did._

_“You are clean. I m-must go M-My Lady—” And with that—Reek departed; his stench retreating with him._

****

****

* * *

 

**_Theon_ **

_Present_

****

Theon felt the piercing darkness. It had enclosed around his heart. Extending its reach to every corner of his nervous system. It was not so easily forsaken.

His body would react to Sansa. His skin burns alight if she touched him—but his mind was still at war. Still unable to forget the sight of her. Huddled up alongside of Jon.

He felt the sting of that betrayal in his heart. In his soul. It would not dwindle. Despite her forgiveness; everything still felt hollowed out. Internally.

And nightmares, ensued.

Glimpses of a past, best forgotten, but unable to be.

Skin fraught with inflictions, all thanks to Ramsay, Theon would never be able to withstand rejection again. Sansa had pushed him from her life.

So easily. Because of Ramsay.

Which (if Theon knew Ramsay) he was smirking sadistically about from the worst of the seven hells.

Hands touched sweat-lathered skin. Pulsing beats rampantly increased Theon’s heart—and sweet tones, entered his psyche.

“Theon…? Wake up? P-Please…”

Frantic—Theon clenched down on the furs, and jolted into consciousness. Tears wet his eyes. And he felt it. Wetness, on his thighs.

“Theon, speak to me. You were screaming in your sleep. Gods…I thought you would never wake…You were in agony—such agony…” Distress was potent in her tone. Thumbs brushed away beads of sweat from his cheeks.

Humiliated. Theon glanced down. He was in a puddle of urine. His urine.

Ramsay’s voice entered his mind. Clear as day. ‘ _Filthy, incontinent, hound!_ ’

He swung his head in disbelief. Even now, he could still feel Ramsay’s punishment. Clear as day. Ran his tongue over the jagged ridge of his molar. Remembered the touch of Sansa’s warm skin as he knelt on the stone—in this very room—and bathed her supple, curves, and edges, in urine-drenched breeches.

Theon could only think of all the manners in which he was not worthy of Sansa. This delicate, Northern Lady. Swollen with child. Insistent she was broken by Ramsay, yet, so easily able to lay bare with Jon. To seek her half-brother’s warm, whole flesh, after binding herself to Theon before the Gods.

She did not want him. She believed him weak—like Ramsay. Like all of Westeros.

This was his worst nightmare come true. He was soaked in his own accident, his wife, soothing him with words—touches.

Theon tugged up the furs. Shielded his shame from her.

“You had an accident…It is okay, Theon. I am not mad at you.”

When she cooed at him like a child—for this—it was too much. Theon jerked clear from her touch. Inched away until he met firm, rough wall. And pushed his face into the stone. Drank in the potent reek in the air. It was one he was familiar with. So familiar it made him ill.

“I f-felt him. His h-hands were o-on me.” He did not mean to speak. But he did.

Blubbering like a child. Shoulders wracked with sobs. He could not turn his face back to the stained sheets. Could not face his own humiliation. His nightmare.

Sansa—seeing him for what he was. Like she did, **_then_**.

Sansa hung back. Stood in quite contemplation. Listened to him babble. And he lowered to the stone. Felt the rough surface against his rear-end. He still ached there—from the dream. Memories of Ramsay’s brutality. He still suffered it.

He always would.

“Shh—He can never hurt you again. I fed him to the hounds. He is gone. He is gone, now.” Somehow, she wound her arms around him. And he faded into them.

“Your body did not tell you, that you needed to go.” Were the next words spoken in soft hesitance into his ear.

Sometimes his body did not warn him before it relieved itself. It was rare—but it happened. As Reek—no one cared. As Theon—Sansa now laid beside him—and he would drench her, too.

“I r-relived it…” Hushed tones incurred. “The night I…I b-bathed you.”

Soft fingers froze in his sandy hair.

“You were wet that night.”

He went strictly rigid. Theon never told her the truth about that night. Too ashamed of the truth. “He r-raped me—It h-hurt so much Sansa…I c-could not help what happened.” Theon descended into broken sobs, in her arms. “H-He made me w-wear them. Wet…freezing c-cold…And b-bathe you.” Theon felt so **small**. So **_pathetic_**.

And not for the first time; **unworthy** of her.

“He was a monster. It was not your fault, Theon. None of it is your fault.” Tears breached her eyes. Theon felt her pity sink into him.

Along with the shame.

“I need to b-bathe…P-Please, Sansa...P-Please…” Just like with Ramsay—He pleaded. Broken psychologically, there was no reason to his child-like demeanor. But he felt so lost. And without her for so long—he felt abandoned.

“No one will ever prevent you from bathing again, Theon. Ever.” She vowed.

Theon kept his eyes clenched tight. Let his mind shut down—and stopped listening.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _I am so glad that so many of you are enjoying this fanfiction so far! At this point I have no idea how many parts there will be, but I have lots of muse for these two, bbys! And I love hearing from you all! The finale is tonight so remember everyone, lower your expectations lol, I know I have. I will keep updating regularly so keep checking back!_


	18. Part 18; To Fight Iron with Wolf.

**_Part 18; To Fight Iron with Wolf._ **

****

* * *

 

> _I bared my soul for love._
> 
> _My mistake._

 

* * *

 

 

**_Theon_ **

Droplets of water cascaded down into the wooden tub. Surface ripples caught the attention of emerald-green eyes. Tremors proceeded just underneath the waves. To cope; meant to ignite a collision course.

With Sansa—with his own **truths**.

Coping—was **impossible**.

Theon closed his eyes, and could still see Sansa—his Sansa—tucked into her brother’s arms. He could still imagine himself, replaced by another man. There was no innocence—no partition from their vows, and her deep, wounding, betrayal.

Theon could not separate them in his mind. Despite how desperately he attempted to.

Sansa would touch him. Slide soft fingers over him—and he would still feel unworthy.

Like a burden. She had wanted him to leave, her. She said so, herself.

Never once, had Theon even thought of fleeing from Sansa. Each time he was sent away, it chipped another piece of his heart away. Being absent from her side, scored his heart with corresponding wounds, to the ones already there from Ramsay.

That the woman he loved—his wife—could even fathom, sending him on errands in the hopes that he might disappear altogether, deeply hurt him. Not just as a man; but as her **husband**.

Theon might have only bedded her (as a husband in title) on their wedding night, but he thought it spread broader than that. Even, dared to believe the enfold of his physique, was all she required. After all, she beseeched it from him, all those months ago. Under the guise that he alone could offer solace—and she would return the sentiment back unto him. Humans—Even broken ones—Sought touch, sometimes.

But—her words were falsities.

She could find comfort in Jon’s arms, just as well.

Jon had his scars, but he was not broken. Eventually, might he have offered her more than just his arms? More than innocent skin to skin contact?

These same thoughts paralyzed him. Pained him, well beyond explanation.

Ramsay used to toy with him. Rape him into the filth, all-the-while, equally raping his mind. Tearing every ounce of hope—light—from view. Until, he was trained to find the catch in every kindness. Every too-good-to-be-true, sort of thing.

And she was too good for him. That horror-stricken night, days before they fled, Winterfell—proved it.

“Theon?” Waves of her vocals drowned out the all-consuming, ellipsis of his thoughts.

How long had he been soaking in the bathwater? Skin burning from the heat; muscles aching from the touch-memory of his nightmare? He had not moved a muscle, since dipping beneath the surface.

He jolted.

Seeking out her eyes; with tired-inflicted ones of his own. Theon made a noise in his throat. He wanted to do as she pleased. To come **back** to her—but he did not know, **precisely** , how.

Bitterness, sank underneath the paleness of his skin. The thought that Jon could have taken his place in her bed, would forever sully his self-worth in this life.

“W-What?” Hollowly, Theon spoke up.

Sansa gripped tight to the soft, dampened, cloth. White, fingers rung out the water with careful, gentility. Theon perceived the first caress upon his breast—and rippled with shock. Theon’s own hands were used to bathing him, now.

Without her stroke to comfort him for two moons, whilst Ramsay’s bastard developed inside of her, Theon had scrubbed his own skin. Caressed himself, until the shame set in. Tingled with want. As he did now. And he wanted it to stop.

The wanton throbbing.

Her breasts grew twice their natural size in the short window of time, since he had viewed her, last. And his touch-hungry body could not properly take her in—especially naked as she is—without feeling **something**.

The sheets had been stripped from their sleeping place; and the servants had suppressed their giggles, but not their knowing, smiles. It was worse than being under Ramsay’s care. Worse—because he felt powerless, alongside the woman he gave his heart, too—His soul for safe-keeping.

Sansa did not trust him. Not his body, or his mind. So, how could this work? Could it **ever**?

He wished he had succeeded in his intentions. Now, she made her intentions clear to scarcely depart from his side. And she had, Jon—of **all** people—take his sword away. Afraid he might attempt a second time.

He felt more a prisoner in this place, than ever. Just underneath a new thumb.

Yet, still—despite her distrust—Theon loved her.

“You have not moved, Husband. However, did you expect to become clean?” Chiding, light tones flowed from her lips.

He did not answer. Had nothing to say.

It was his only form of rebellion—his only sense of freedom left. The freedom to not speak at all.

He set his jaw, and stared ahead.

Let her clean the sweat, grime, filth—from his form. Until she ran the cloth over his stub.

He jerked, in response. And slid back, until he met the wooden rim. The wood felt wounding against his back. And he flinched in pain. Making a low noise.

Sansa’s eyebrows drew together. “I am sorry, Theon. I did not mean—”

“Please, Sansa…I cannot.” He remembered the first time he said those words. How she removed his clothes, made him succumb. And effectively guided him, underneath the rabbit-furs. Into warm, sin.

She lowered her gaze. Evidently, wounded. But she retracted her hand, all the same.

He released the breath he held in his lungs. They had been burning.

“I will…leave you to finish…” Sansa lowered the rag, back underneath the water. Dried her hands on a towel, and stood. Theon felt his heart ache with regret. Pain.

What was right? What was wrong? He knew not.

There was no one to guide him through this unfamiliar territory. Caught between a husband—and Sansa’s burden. Would it be better, if he had gone? Left her alone?

Would Jon have taken better care of her, than he?

“Do you even want me, anymore, Sansa?” Rutting in the pens hardly counted. It had been months for them both. Lust had taken root. Words had been cut off. Skin had craved physical release. There was no loving emotion like their previous entanglements—just need. Just sincere, **need**. And that made him feel like an **animal**. The heedless, hound Ramsay **always** insisted he was.

Sansa spun back. To face him. A single palm, instinctively, rested on the bulge of her stomach.

“Of course, I do.” Sansa gave an even-toned response. Perhaps unwilling—unable—to see the true destruction he felt.

“Then how could you let Jon, into our bed?” Theon’s lower-lip trembled. There—He said it. “Y-You let Jon, send me away. You left me all **alone**...When all I ever did was offer to be a father to your baby…I only ever **loved** you, S-Sansa…I t-told you I was not h-husband material, but you insisted I marry you, knowing you would **abandon** me, less than a day after…Why, Sansa? Why would you d-do that? Why if you w-wanted me—if you w-want me would you d-do **t-that**?” He kept it all inside; until this moment.

It was all bundled in. Burdening his persecuted form, until he almost came apart. He wanted to rip his soul apart. He wanted to take away the stitches that somehow laced him together, so that he could no longer feel. So that, her betrayal would **never** hurt him again.

He willed himself to not have to feel it.

His skin prickled with bumps. But still—He felt it all.

“I thought you could not handle it. I cannot handle it! Carrying this monster inside of me, makes me so ill, Theon! So very ill! I am afraid. But not of marrying you! I only wanted to give you the option to go! Leave if you so desired to!”

“I only wanted **you** , Sansa! I only wanted my wife! I **cried** for you! I hated myself for whatever I had done to cause you to send me away! Not to love me anymore! You told me that you could only feel things with me. That you felt safest at my side…and then you cast me out! Like I was nothing. I **am** nothing. And I **tried** to tell you! I tried since you made me, come to bed with you! I tried! But you would not listen! You **never** listened! You told me, no one would **ever** hurt me again… **You** hurt me, Sansa! I **am** hurting! And **you** did **this** to me!” Something snapped. Broke apart. The flowing truths came from inside of him, and refused to cease. He felt as though he were distantly, viewing his own, withered, repulsively-maimed body from the outside. Screaming these things—and seeing the truth of why no female could ever **really** love him, from Ramsay’s eye-view. From the castle maid’s perspective. From everyone else’s perspective.

What was left of **him** to love? What worth did he **have** left?

Without his sword—his armor—he could no longer defend himself, let alone her. And without his freedom—He was a prisoner. Worst of all, Theon was weak. Malnourished. With bones protruding from every angle—and a body that ached with every movement. Even speech hurt. His head throbbed, fingernails broke beneath the quick from malnutrition, skin chaffed everywhere clothing touched, from years of being unwashed, properly. And everywhere Ramsay broke him—he **still** suffered the weight of it all.

Yet—Sansa had been his light in the pitiless darkness, Ramsay thrived in. A reason to live. A reason to put on that armor, and sword. To keep going on. Until—even she forgot why she taken him as a husband. Forgot every promise she ever gave him. Until, he became indiscernible to a burden for her.

Her skin paled; chest heaved—and she shook with the force of her sobs. “T-That is what you t-think of me, Theon? You think me so u-unfeeling? I-It broke me to be w-without you! I did not desire to see you, break again—To watch you recede through the years of raising this child!”

Theon lowered his gaze. He could not see past, **Jon**. Perfect, able-bodied, Jon. With only a few scars on his skin. With his **parts** intact. His arms wide open to his only, surviving sister.

“And if I left…If I **never** came back…Would you have given yourself to, Jon?” Theon felt weak. Tired.

Sansa sniffled, rubbed the back of her hand against her nose.

“D-Do you honestly, think so **little** of me?”

“That is not a, No.” Coldness, laced his tone.

“Of course, not!” Defensively, Sansa scoffed.

“Not even when you were lonely? Years from now? When you would ache to be touched? And tire of your own hand to garner pleasure from? Not even then?”

“What do you want me to say, Theon?” Her voice dropped to a whisper. “I have already told you; Jon only did what he did for my comfort. S-So I could sleep…So that I would not—” Her eyes downcast.

“What? Would not, **what**?”

Her head turned up; eyes trained upon his. “So that I would not die in childbirth. I could not eat, because I felt such guilt for what I put you through. I wanted to die, when I thought you might be dead, already, last morning. I would have died, knowing I killed you, Theon. I put you in the ground.”

Sudden guilt, hit Theon. But it was not for the reason it should have been. But for the sudden realization that he was out of line. Theon was beneath—everyone. Sansa included.

Speaking out against her. Expressing his wounds—Why should she care to hear them? Ramsay taught him his place in the world. It was not to complain. He should be grateful for scraps. For pittance. And a wife, at all.

Wringing his hands. Theon stood. Departed the cooling water’s surface. Ebbed toward Sansa, drew her into his embrace. Swords were a privilege. To be taken away. Love was also a privilege. Also, to be stripped away upon another’s whims. Sansa was his ‘Lady’ and so often he told her he was not a Lord.

He certainly—was not.

Theon wiped away her tears. “I told you once, if ever you need to seek out another, I would step aside. I should not have blamed you.”

She did not speak.

“Come to bed. I will not speak of it again.” All tears were gone from his cheeks. All emotion from his voice. Finally—Theon succeeded in shutting it down. If she did not want him to feel. He would no longer feel. He would be hers. To toss aside at will; to be a husband—a lover—when necessary. But his heart was obliterated. His loyalty, remained.

Without another word; they nestled in bed together. And neither spoke, until sleep overtook them. Both of them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The finale was off the wall. I do not even have words for it, ngl. But I love hearing from you all! Thank you for continuing to make this fanfiction, my all-time favorite to write!


	19. Part 19; To Reclaim a Soul.

**_Part 19; To Reclaim a Soul._ **

* * *

> _And so, we fell._
> 
> _slow, hard fast._
> 
> _and together._

 

* * *

 

 

**_Sansa_ **

 

Theon changed.

It was as though a candle blew out—and light extinguished from his eyes.

Light. **Love**.

Like a white walker; Theon complied with her every wish.

Held her when darkness fell, kissed her at all the appropriate moments, bedded her each night.

But his movements were unfeeling. Calculated things. His words; monotone. Dead.

It was as though he were speaking to her; but he was not really present alongside of her. And she felt the ache of loss, worse than when she believed him gone for good.

The anger-induced words Theon shouted at her, that night, stuck in her mind. The defeat in his eyes—the deeply set wounds of betrayal.

 **She** did that.

 **She** hurt him.

Ramsay was their worst nightmare—and yet—Theon had been more traumatized by her interference in his decision-making process, than by the existence of Ramsay’s spawn inside of her.

She had taken it upon herself to remove any pointy objects from Theon’s immediate reach. Even at meals, she kept a close eye on him. Never leaving him with a knife of his own.

Sansa did not trust that he would not snap—especially now.

The hollowness in his eyes; the passive manner in which he acted—petrified her.

She felt as though she lost him; despite her constant attempts, to the contrary. He would not speak of that night. Pretended it never occurred—The accusations that parted his vocals. His blatant distrust of her loyalty to him. How could she ever convince him? Especially now?

Sometimes, he would sit—for hours on end. Stare into the fireplace. Watch the flames lick the air, furs bundled around him—and stare. No words. No explanation. He only budged when she asked him to—when she instructed him to.

She felt as though every movement only did further damage to Theon. She had broken his spirit; but never meant to. Never set out to. A month passed in this manner.

But she still could not forget what he spoke to her. What he accused her of. Because it was all **true**. He had been hurting—Was he **still**? She could no longer tell. And she had done it to him. Through Jon. She was at fault for **all** of this.

Expressly, Theon spoke of not wanting to be her husband. Above all else. She forced him to her bed, forced him into a marriage he did not want. Yet, he was loyal to her. He loved her. She could not wrap her head around the reasons why.

If he loved her—after she hurt him—had he loved Ramsay, too? The thought sickened her. But she could not penetrate the surface, any other way.

How could she fix a man that was so broken? Once, she believed it would be with their body warmth. Robb’s method. Now—she did not even know if it could be done at all.

She felt like he was drowning—and no matter how often she threw out a rope—she could never quite guide it to him. There was never a tug in return.

Though she had him, the Gods had been ruthless enough to abscond with his mind. The single-most piece of him she revered above all others.

Hunched over the fire; Sansa watched him. Hands rested over her oversize belly. Ignoring the brutal kicks from the babe inside of her.

Theon was silent. Sea-green eyes trained on the crimson coloring. Fingers tightly clenched to the furs. Messy curls settled atop his head, and only a tunic on his form. He rarely dressed. He cared little to preserve his dignity from her—from the servants. Perhaps he felt he had none to preserve. She was just as troubled over that. Small of a detail as it was.

It meant he had given up.

Jon avoided her; busied himself with matters of the counsel. Wed himself to a Lady from Dorne. Perhaps the wedding was rushed, due to self-blame for Theon. She did not bother to ask. Jon only informed her of news that was of the utmost importance; which these days—were few, and far between.

“Theon?” Sansa called out.

His head turned. Eyes absently landed on her.

“Come here.” She instructed. Theon came.

Rabbit-furs that were huddled around him, landed on the stone. Once, at her bedside, instinctively—wrecked fingers struggled to yank the tunic over his head. Letting it cascade to join the rabbit furs upon the stone.

“Do you have need of my body, My Lady?” Hollow. Empty words. She saw into his eyes. There was nothing there.

It made tears rim her own eyes. “N-No I did not ask you over here, for that. Put your tunic back on. Sit.” He lifted the discarded fabric. Redressing; then settled at her bedside.

She missed the subtle, little things, he did before. Even as Reek—Theon would hold her hand. Touch her with love. Longing to feel something. Anything. Now, he made no effort to reach for her. Only stared.

“ T-Theon…Do you love me?” Worming her fingers into silky fabric of her nightdress. Her eyes searched his.

“Of course. You are my wife.” Monotone. Unfeeling.

Her heart cinched.

She reached for his hand. Gripped it in her own. Lifting it to her lips. She kissed it, delicately. Sniffling.

“Do you remember the last time we saw each other? Before I left for King’s Landing? Do you remember, the last thing you said to me, as you saw me off?” Her thumb brushed the slight bump on his index finger’s knuckle. Where the bone had cracked under pressure. The digit was slanted—askew—but still flexed.

Theon was silent.

“I remember **everything**.” Was all he would say.

And she blinked, a few tears trekked down her cheeks. “You told me, that I was comely—elegant—that no other girl stood a chance, to clutch a man’s affections. That I was a bride well-suited to a royal prick of a prince like Joffrey. Remember?”

“Yes.”

She fidgeted with his hand. “I thought then, you were jealous. That you were lashing out, because I was going away, and you were staying put.” Sansa peered back on the memory. Closed her eyes, summoning it. Her long strands of hair; ocean eyes that shifted up to look Theon in the eyes when he spoke those words. Reopening her eyes. Sansa took in the warmth of his hand, the calloused feel of him.

“You were jealous, though. Just not for the reasons I thought, weren’t you? You were jealous, because you honestly believed that you never would have been enough for me. You believed; I could not love. That I was incapable of it. I only wanted a husband as shallow as I was.” She relinquished her hold on his hand. Let her skin tingle from the loss of it.

He twitched, but said nothing.

“Despite what you may believe, I love you, Theon. I love you, with everything I have. And maybe…maybe all I have left inside is not enough to counteract Ramsay’s damage to you. Or remedy the fact that you were my family’s prisoner for years, before Ramsay ever laid a finger on you. But I just wish it were enough, to convince you that what I did—to you—I thought was best. That I did it for you. For love.” Sniffling, she released a breath.

“But I liberated you, Theon. You are not my prisoner here. And I hate to think that when you come to bed with me, you do so, only because I bid you to. Not because you hold desire for me. I fear, you have grown to resent me, Theon. But your word is all you have left. So, you stay. This is not love I feel from you, Theon. It is defeat.” The more she spoke, the worse she felt. She knew—what needed to be done. And this time; She would let it happen.

“Do you wish to leave here, Theon? Is it…Has it truly become so painful, that you want to die?”

His eyes glanced up. For the first time, she saw—something—shimmering behind the façade of nothing. A flicker in his eye.

“I am giving you a choice, Theon. If it hurts that badly. I do not want you to suffer, anymore. I want you to live, Theon. But I want you to be present. With me, as you do. And—And even if you cannot be with me, then I wish for you to find the happiness you want from the world. Wherever that is.” She was choking on her own tears. This hurt.

If he walked away—If he left. She had no one.

“Theon.” She turned his face to hers. Cupped his cheeks, with tenderness. “Speak to me. Please? I miss your voice. I want you to feel again, Husband. I want you to really—feel—again. But if you cannot—if it is not possible. Then I will give you the blade. I will give you, whatever you desire to end this life. And I will join you in the next. Where you will be whole again.” Her thumbs stroked over the stubble of his jaw. Listening—waiting for him to speak. To react—anything.

 

 

* * *

 

**_Theon_ **

 

Everything he saw. Every flicker—Every moment. Was hollow. Empty. Theon’s skin no longer crawled. Nor did it pierce with agony—He felt nothing.

Body. Mind. Soul.

It was like wavering. Weaving through vines, all the while, knowing the stab of pain was not far behind. So, Theon kept moving.

Inside, the numb sensation was enough to sate him. And detach from this place. His body. His life.

All the things he could not cope with.

His indefinite love for Sansa, one of those things.

How could he love a woman that hurt him so deeply? He questioned himself, internally. Over and over again. The conclusion was always the same.

He was destined to be broken. And broken things, attracted other broken things.

Somewhere—through the tangle of vines—he felt the alluring pull of a sweet voice. Calling to him. Pleading to him. The voice wanted him to return.

Needed him to stop running. The inevitable chase—needed to end.

And it did.

Finally.

Substantial aches returned to his body. Muscles eased under skin, tensing with discomfort. Light returned to leaf-green eyes. The all-consuming darkness gave way to the burning light.

Theon let his eyes fall closed. His skin pinken underneath the drag of soft-touches. Her words brought him back. The memory from the past. His jealousy over Joffrey. Hatred for Ramsay.

Everything—returned to him.

She would give up her own life to make him whole? The thought stabbed him. He could not see, Sansa, follow him into oblivion. He would not.

Wet streaks stained her porcelain skin. Snot ran down her upper-lip. Theon tilted his head toward hers. Stole a simple kiss from rosy-petals.

Soft, timid movements returned the kiss.

Patters rose in his heart, and he sighed.

“What has become of us, Sansa?” Theon cooed in a low, tone. His thumb swiping tears left, and right.

“T-Theon?” The last time he heard that tremor resound in her voice—he was gone for a month. Fear shook him.

“How long this time? How long was I lost?” He inquired. Grazed a thumb over her cheek.

“T-Too long. I thought you were gone for good, this time. Theon. I thought you would never come back.” Those words rattled him to his core.

I want…I want to feel like your husband. To be your husband.” Theon admitted.

“How would I do that? How would I make you feel that?” Earnest eyes inspected his.

“I wish to be free, Sansa. I do not wish to live without rights to my own wife. And to be separate from you—and your baby.” He was careful not to claim the child. Far too afraid to.

“I just…I want to have you, and my freedom.” Right in this moment—he felt caged.

Confined to bedchambers. Cut off from the few things he retained from his home. From Yara. His sword—his armor. His blade.

“You are not my prisoner, Theon.” She spoke with such conviction—just like Ned used to, when he attempted to convince him that staying out of his homeland; was best. Attempted to console him, about all the things he missed.

“Jon took away my sword…” Eyes became avoidant—Theon knew why it had been done.

“I was fearful. You were unwell, Theon. I…You are **still** , unwell. And I fear you always will be, unwell.” He watched her teeth sink within her bottom lip.

Theon bowed his head. “What am I, without the ability to protect my wife? Myself? I am still an Iron-born, man. Do you know what that means? Truly?”

He saw her eyebrows knit together. “I suspect you shall tell me?”

“Iron-born men are supposed to be strong. Warriors. I have never been that for you, Sansa. You spend most of your time, worrying for me. Caring for me in your own way.”

Theon tilted her chin, upward. And kissed long, and deep. How could he make her understand it? How useless he appeared—at all times. Sansa returned the kiss, hungry for the attention he bestowed.

“I care for you the same, as I have since I first met you.” Sansa persisted.

Growling in aggravation, Theon bunched up her nightdress. Spread her open—pressed his stub to her lower-pleats. Hindered in part by the bulk of her belly—Theon hovered over his prize.

“I want to **feel** like a man again. I want to **feel** like an Iron-born.” He circumvented.

“You **are** an Iron-Born. You **are** a man. And you **are** my husband.” Sansa’s tone, tinged with playfulness. Something he had not heard from her—Not perhaps, since their days amidst the fields. In flight—during chasing games.

Theon felt strong. Stronger—and clear-minded. Weeks of disillusionment had brought a few ounces of life back within him. Rejuvenated his spirit.

Rough fingers found her pleasure nub, just at the top of her apex. Pressed on the swollen nub. She jolted—and gasped. “T-Theon…”

“Tell me, Wife. How long has it been since I have ravaged you? Hm?” Theon devoured each minute whine from Sansa’s throat. Bodice already reacting in full to his touch. Pink-nipples poked hard, through the thin gown. Three fingers thrust—without warning—deep-up inside her, sopping entrance. She moaned out like a bitch in heat.

“Too long? Has it not?” Theon wasted no time in pumping his fingers. “You know, I used to play with the pregnant whores sometimes. They would charge me half, cause they liked to be touched. Something about being swollen with child, makes a woman hungry for it.”

She made unintelligible sounds of need. Followed by his name.

For an instant—he forgot. Forgot what he no longer had. And focused on how much he desired his wife. His fingers stilled; thumb too.

Her sounds were almost animal.

“Give me back my things, and I will sate you.” Theon played dirty.

She quivered.

“F-Fine—Just…P-Please—”

Sansa squealed as he returned to his ministrations all at once.

“See? That was not so difficult…was it?”

Theon pumped her—lowered his head. And began to lap at her. Those fists tangled In his curls.

Tonight, would be long—and he was only just getting started.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And now; the fun begins. ;]


	20. Part 20; To Steal Iron Strength.

**_Part 20; To Steal Iron Strength._ **

****

* * *

 

> _Sometimes the worst_
> 
> _place you can be_
> 
> _is in your own head._

 

* * *

 

 

**_Theon_ **

 

There was joy. Pure joy, written into Theon’s eyes. Light, engulfed his heart. Sang on the surface of worn-skin.

He felt good.

Listened to the cry from Sansa’s mouth. Caught the gush of her juices against his tongue.

She felt moist—like heaven. Tasted of salt—reminded him of **home**.

“What has come over you?” Sansa panted. Chest heaving.

Sweat stuck tendrils of hair to Theon’s forehead. Light-glinted in his hues.

“Can a man not, desire his wife?” Theon retracted his fingers. Scoured up the length of her bodice—And settled.

Hard, aching stub, pushed right to her center. And without warning—He began to rut. Pleasure burst to each nerve-ending. Even the ruined places on his being.

Sansa threw her head back—moaning. And he connected their lips. Biting. Sucking. Kissing. Until they were swollen.

He felt fire in his belly. He felt her skin—so pliant. So warm.

And shuddered. Coming apart on top of her.

It had been this way for several nights now. Countless windows of time, together. Each night, Sansa appeared hungrier than the last. Needier.

She would plead for him. He would barely graze her with a hand—and she would whine.

Resting atop her. Theon grazed her belly. Felt the kick of the babe, strong as ever. He rolled onto his side. The bump had begun to hinder their love-making.

“Yes, you can desire me all you choose.” Sansa found his cheek. Brushed the stubble that lined his jaw.

Theon’s heart pounded with exhilaration. And exhaustion.

Aches began to settle into his muscles. Expending himself in such a manner, only sought to tucker him out. His skin would always be sensitive. His bones, muscles, back, skin—All permanently seared from torture—ached wretchedly, from the strain.

“Your baby will come soon.” Theon recognized the wounded sting in her eye. It darkened her mood.

She pushed his hand off of her belly. And rolled with her back to him.

Undeterred, Theon inched nearer. Draped his arm around her middle. Pressed a kiss to the back of her neck. He would never leave her again. He made a vow.

 As her husband, Theon would protect her. Despite the consequences—His own consistently attacking, psyche. He remained; right there.

“It will be a monster. Not a baby.” Spoken through gritted teeth; Theon shivered.

“It will be yours.” Theon attempted to reassure her. “You will make it your own. Raise it. Teach it.”

“Ramsay was unteachable. As will any child of his, be.” Sansa was adamant.

Theon flinched.

“You do not know that.”

“I do. I absolutely do.” She persisted.

He sighed.

“My father is a bitter, cruel, old man. He is Iron-born through, and through. No man would claim he was anything other than a natural leader. Hard, like iron. He used to favor a lashing to punish his children.” Theon swallowed at the memory. “My mother, however…She was always soft, warm. I remember her holding me, after. She would tell me that I need not pay him a bit of mind. She was bold, too. Bolder than most women. She was the only one that could stand up to my father. Set him right.” He lowered his chin onto Sansa’s shoulder. “I favored my mother. I looked up to her. And I wanted to be like her. I was never like my family. Never going to be a decent reaver, or raper. Because of her.”

Sansa shuddered in his arms.

“Why are you telling me this?" Cold words uttered from her lips.

“Because, Sansa. You are good. Decent. Loving. You are all of the things I saw in my mother. If my mother could change me, why do you think that you will be unable to change your baby?”

Sansa shuddered. He felt it.

She turned in his embrace. Pressed her the swell of her belly, right up against his, own.

“You were not born a monster, Theon. This child, will be. I can feel it. In every bone of my body! I can feel it! Do you understand that? Ramsay was vile, cruel. No motherly figure could have changed that in him! I do not want this child! I do not want it, Theon! I wish it were your baby! I wish it were anyone else’s baby!” Descending into tears. Theon froze.

The shockwaves surged up his spine, as he recalled what he could never give to her.

Children.

Lowering his eyes, he nodded. Decidedly, abandoning any hope of convincing her that her baby was more than just Ramsay’s child.

“Do you…want to give the baby away?” His heart rose in his throat.

Her back went rigid. “No.” She finally breathed out.

“I would never give a monster to someone else.”

The words bit the underside of his skin—but he conceded.

“Rest, My Lady. I did not mean to cause you distress.” Theon brushed careful fingers through crimson tendrils. Tears rolled down his cheeks in slow streams.

“I wish it were your baby, Theon. I wish you could give me babies.” Voice barely an octave above a whisper. Theon shuddered.

Eyes opening. Cheeks burning with flame.

Each night he burned to feel her. Really feel her. To share the intimacy of her flesh—and not be ashamed. To have babes of his own. Offspring. Something good to come from the darkness, he endured. But all there was; was Sansa.

Hearing her speak this way—did a number on his heart.

“What would you have me do, Sansa? You know I want those things. You know it in your heart.” Theon attempted to stay strong. For her.

Alive. Despite his willingness to fade into the next life—He would not take her with him.

“I hate him. I hate him so much!” Sansa admitted, in sobbing-gulps. “This child will murder me. I just know that it will.”

“It will not. I would never let it. I would kill it, first.” Theon vowed.

The darkness extended—Theon held her all the while. Listened to her sob—Ignored his gut. The sensation that told him, to put stock in her words.

He held her—warmed her—until she found sleep. Until exhausted, Sansa lulled into the crook of his neck—and passed out.

All through the night—Theon held her. Until sleep finally claimed him, for its own.

 

* * *

 

**_Sansa_ **

Wetness, coated her skin. The first acknowledgement that she awoke—was that sensation. Being drenched.

Curiously, Sansa reached down between Theon’s legs. Believing, he had another accident in his sleep.

He was dry.

Her skin shivered. In horror—She felt between her own thighs. Withdrew her hand—and saw blood. So much blood.

She screamed—Theon jolted awake alongside of her.

Reaching-arms coiled just underneath her breasts. Tears trekked down either cheek.

“What—What is…wrong?” Theon’s eyes widened at the sight of crimson-blood. The scent hit her, next. Iron.

“Gods!” He threw back the furs. Panic struck in his eyes. Fear. He froze. She saw it.

His mind was breaking down. He could not handle this.

Sudden pain, jilted through her lower-half. She thought she was dying. “Theon? H-Help…” She made pitiful, whining sounds. Her head felt woozy. Her skin flushed with heat.

Theon gawked—eyes wide in terror—twitching. Blinking. Not communicating.

She could not walk. Could not stand. Every movement garnered excruciating pain.

“T-Theon…I need…help.”

* * *

 

**_Theon_ **

Blood spattered everything. Spilled on her thighs. Over the sheets. Coated—ruined the furs.

Theon could not speak. Words refused to come. Fear, petrified him. This was the end. This is how he would lose her.

She would leave him. Ramsay had done this to her.

Ramsay took the last thing in this life—He loved.

She would not survive this. She could not survive this.

Every bad thought crowded his thoughts. Made him immobile. The strength in him—vanished. All that remained was a shell.

Twitching. Broken. Shattered.

Ramsay’s final gift to him.

Invisible vines wound around his heart. Clenching, squeezing. Until he thought he might have a heart attack. Panic ate away at him.

“Theon!” He could hear his name. Her voice was waning. Her skin clammy—sickly pale, on her face. She would die…He was going to be alone…

“H-Help…” He heard the word—but it did not click.

It refused to make sense. He could only stare. Could only feel helpless as she bled. As she cried. Pain encroached on her. He could see it.

Finally, he tumbled off the bed. Forced his legs to obey. Not conscious of the fact that he was nude. And now coated in his wife’s blood. He only stood.

Just outside; eyes searching. Ears listening.

A servant—plainly dressed. Skin-peachy like cream. He reached out to her. Gripped her sleeve. As though noticing for the first time, Theon was covered in blood. The servant girl shrieked. Releasing the stack of woolen-blankets in her arms. Wide-eyes found his.

“W-What have you done! Theon! What have you done!” She was screaming at him. Struggling away from him.

But he had done nothing. Guards came. Seized him.

Jon came—running.

“N-Nothing…I s-swear…blood…so…much…b-blood…” Theon shook. Whined. Trembled. Sobbed.

He was lost. His mind—lost.

Theon collapsed to his knees. Shaking his head in constant denial. Glanced at blood-stained hands. Could smell the iron of her blood.

She was going to die…Was she dead, already?

The guards released his arms. He heard Jon’s voice, “She is in labor! But something is wrong! Send for the Maester! Now!”

Theon gawked up, with terrified eyes. Sansa! If she was dying—He needed to be there.

With single-mindedness. He began towards the doors from whence, he came. Felt Jon’s hands on his shoulders.

“You cannot go back in there. It is not right for men to be in the birthing chamber.”

Jon spoke, but Theon did not care.

He needed to be there for her. He **would** be there for her.

“Get off! L-Let go!” Jon was clutching him. Attempting to drag him away. He went berserk.

Kicked out with his legs. Pushed against Jon’s chest, until he was free. And surged back into Sansa’s chambers. Climbed upon the blood-stained sheets. And clutched tight to her.

He could hear her breath. It came in shaky pants. She was hurting. He could feel it. And it was too early. The baby was coming **too** early. By at least a month.

He felt her hand, weak; trembling. He felt her fingers in his hair. He sobbed into her neck.

“S-Sansa…You c-cannot l-leave me…P-Please…P-Please…” Theon could not steady himself. He was wrecked. Sick to his stomach. Fearful.

“I do not…wish to…leave you…” Breath did not come easy to her lungs. He felt the strain of it as his ear pressed over her heart. Listened to uneven palpitations. Her rhythm was out of control.

She was on fire. Heat poured out of her skin. Sweat stuck all of her hair to her forehead—and cheeks. Theon brushed it clear. Kissed her sloppily. Hoping to convey all of his love unto her in this instant. He rested his head against her neck. Let his hand graze her belly. Listened to the rush of her heart. He needed to know she was still breathing—still living.

Still with him.

He heard the sound of speaking. Heard the Maester’s distress. Speaking words like, ‘breech’, ‘rupture’, and ‘blood loss’.

But Theon tuned them out. Focused on Sansa. On what he could focus on. Because he could not lose her. He would not lose her. He watched the Maester, push on her belly. Turn, until she shrieked in so much pain—he feared it might stop her heart. Theon reached for her hand. Held it tight in his own. And she squeezed. Hard enough for him to feel the bones grind together.

“I-I am r-right h-here…W-Will n-never leave y-you.” Theon vowed in hushed tones, against the shell of her ear. When the Maester ceased pressing on her belly. Her ear-shattering screams died with it.

Theon heard the shrill screams from her throat, as she began to push. Her grip hurt. His flesh still weak from years of maltreatment. He shuddered. And encouraged. As best he could.

Despite the panic. The fear. He planted soft kisses on her neck. Nuzzled her with his nose. Let her crush his fingers until they ached.

And then…

Piercing cries flooded the air. Not Sansa’s.

Theon dared to look.

Pink-squealing flesh, coated in slime, blood—with an umbilical cord attached was yanked out. Held in the Maester’s hands in the air. Theon saw the tell-tale dangle of Its penis, and ball-sac.

It was a ‘he.’

One quick snip of shears, had the cord detached. And a servant, clutched the child. Washing the newborn’s skin. Cleansing him. Before he was bundled in a woolen blanket.

Theon’s attention returned to Sansa. Breathing shaky, skin clammy—her heartbeat was lowering. He could hear it.

“S-Sansa?” Fear clutched his stomach. “S-Stay…D-Do not g-go…” Theon kissed her pulse point. Brushed calloused fingers through her scarlet-strands.

Nuzzled her for comfort. Pressed the length of his being—against hers.

She was chilled. And trembling.

“S-Save her!” He shouted at the Maester. As the man pressed cloth towels to her thighs. Attempting to soak up the blood that pooled out of her.

“W-What is…it…the…baby…?” Hazy. Wheezed out words came out.

Theon let hot tears meet her neck. “B-Boy. I-It is a boy…”

He felt her shudder through the encompass of her frame. Head to toe.

“Murderer…It is…a-already…a m-murderer…” Her whispers were faint.

He would not hear it. He could not. “No! F-Fight, Sansa…You s-stay here! I n-need you…h-here!” He broke down at her side. Clutched her hand. Fought to pass her his strength—whatever was left of it.

“S-Stay with me…” He whined.

She lost consciousness. He pushed his ear to her chest. Listened to her pulse. It was faint—barely there. But there.

The Maester worked tirelessly. Staunched the bleeding, and administered milk of the poppy.

“She may live. If she makes it through the night.” The Maester declared.

The babe cried out for its mother. It needed milk. The youthful servant he first started half-to-death in the hall, held the wiggling bundle.

“She needs milk.” The servant piped up.

Theon felt repulsion in his stomach. Searing hatred for the child. It almost took her away to have him. Another of Ramsay’s gifts. Why should this infant prosper off her innards? She was barely alive. Barely breathing. So very, very weak.

She needed her bodice protected from further, ravishing.

And yet—It was innocent. He—was innocent.

Theon nodded to the girl.

And she came forward, tucked the babe just under Sansa’s breast, and it latched on. Suckling in seconds. All sounds, aside from its suckling, dissipated.

The servant gave a low, little sigh of relief. Theon watched in contempt for the pink creature.

Now up close, Theon could see the dark tufts of hair. Nearly identical to that of Ramsay’s—Theon’s stomach lurched. And then he opened his eyes—and hauntingly, familiar, pale-blue optics found Theon’s.

Theon barely made it over the bed, before he was sick onto the stone—causing the servant girl to shriek. He curled up. And began rocking, tears took hold—and he could not breathe.

This was not happening.

This could not happen.

It. Could. Not. Happen.


	21. Part 21; To Come to Terms.

**_Part 21; To Come to Terms._ **

* * *

 

> _Nothing can dim the_
> 
> _light that shines_
> 
> _from within._

* * *

 

 

**_Theon_ **

He had no knowledge of the amount of time that passed.

Was it hours? Minutes? Eternity?

He knew not.

However, it took him a long time to reunite with his mind. To cease rocking in the fetal position.

The servant girl’s touch was frantic upon his arm. Her movements vibrated him. Rattled him straight to the core.

“T-Take it away…Take that t-thing, off of her!” Theon finally snapped at the servant.

Sea-green optics deadly serious. He would **kill** it. Strangle it—burn it. If she did not remove the monstrosity—Right. **Now**.

Horrified, the servant reached for the little babe. That now, had finished suckling. Scurrying from the chambers.

Turning on the bed, Theon wound an arm around Sansa’s middle. Drew her in close. Let the heat from her bodice, warm his chilled to the bone, one.

Tears made a stream down either worn-cheek. “S-Survive…You h-have to s-survive…” Pleading whispers of despair.

“Y-You c-cannot leave m-me…I n-need you.”

Those hunches, had been infallible. Sansa knew all along, what she was carrying. Nourishing—A **monster**. Why had he never believed? He had so desperately, longed to believe, the babe would be kind. Good. Like Sansa.

Birthing that thing; nearly cost Sansa, her life.

The thought penetrated to his core. Resulting in blood-chills up the base of his spine. Chin rested precariously on a bony shoulder.

Sansa was so thin. Bone-thin. Only the bloat of her abdomen provided the illusion of weight on her being. Structurally, every bone could be viewed, underneath pale skin.

How had he overlooked it? The boniness? Gaunt, haunted visage. This pregnancy nearly destroyed her.

For a **monster**.

Theon laid with his ear to her breast. His only hope to survey her breath sounds. Her heartbeat.

He could not bear it if either stopped.

If she gave up the fight.

One of his rough hands, clung hold of hers. Squeezed to will her his strength. She could take what he had. He would give her all of it.

All of him.

Whatever it took. He would not put her in the ground.

He could not.

All through the night he willed her to live. Held her near, permitted the monstrosity to feed—after some coaxing from Jon, himself.

But, only **after** Sansa’s heartbeat, strengthened.

He would only use the chamber pot—refused to leave her long enough to use the privy. And he refused all food. He would not eat—not until he knew she would live.

Time passed in a blur. Morning streams beamed in through the curtains, but Theon hardly noticed.

Not until; Sansa stirred.

Little moaning whines emerged from her throat. Small maneuvers made on the sheets. Theon had resolved to hold her, balanced in his arms, whilst the servants stripped the bedsheets. Replaced the rabbit-furs with fox-furs. Clean bedlinens laid underneath their forms.

In silence, Theon had cleansed pale-white skin. Cleaned grime. Filth. Blood. Off of her. Same as she had for him, whilst he had laid unconscious. Only rose-scent permeated her skin.

Those Tully-blue optics found his—and Theon’s heart nearly ceased to beat.

“T-Theon…” Drawn out whispers, emerged from dry—parched—vocals.

Fingers swiped through strands of crimson-hair just behind her ear. Tears rimmed green-eyes.

“I am h-here, Sansa…Right here.” Light, tender-strokes were made against dull, cheek-skin with the ridge of his knuckles.

Seeking-fingers sought out his bony-wrist. Thumb pad lightly dragged, just there. At his pulse-point. Theon’s eyes closed. Just moments ago, his belief was that, he may never know her ghostly-touch again.

“What…h-happened…” Little coughs, rattled her chest.

Theon’s stomach clenched.

“You…went into l-labor. The baby…was turned the wrong way, you nearly bled to death.” Trembling; Theon kissed her forehead. “Y-You almost…left me…”

Blue optics fell to him; sympathetic features lined her face.

“Where…is…baby?”

Theon wracked with chills. Fell, silent.

What could he say? The child was a boy? Reminiscent of Ramsay? Each statement made his belly churn harder. How could he tell her? Her worst fears were proved true.

“The baby…is a boy…b-but…” Swallowing—Theon flinched.

“But….?” Awakening further, Sansa’s eyes frantically searched his.

Theon could not breathe. Crushing weight encroached on his lungs. Heart. Body. Rapidly—his head shook. Refused to meet her eye. How could he tell her?

“T-Tell m-me…What…is w-wrong?” Chilled-fingers cupped either cheek.

Tears flowed unabated down his cheeks. Sniffling. Twitching. Squirming.

Theon swallowed.

“He…H-He looks like R-Ramsay.”

Sansa’s hands dropped from his cheeks. Pure horror wrote into her eyes. Theon reached for her hands. Squeezed.

Tears overflowed down either of her cheeks.

“N-No...No…H-He cannot!” Sansa persisted.

 

* * *

 

 

**_Sansa_ **

 

Reaching out—Sansa gripped him. Fear tugged her belly. Seared her insides.

Was this real? True? Could it be?

Skin fluttered with repressed chills. Heart beat with thick pumps. How could this happen?

Her hand lowered. Grazed the absence of the fetus previously nestled, within. Soft, bulging flesh still lingered—No babe.

It had been born. The monstrosity was here—and terrorizing Theon.

She viewed it in his eyes. Scared. Helpless. Wracked with tremors. Sansa’s heart cinched.

“Breathe—T-Theon…B-Breathe.” With more strength than she knew she had. Her hand enclosed around his.

Squeezed.

Tears tracked trails down exhausted-cheeks. Theon curled near. Like a cat. Nuzzled within the crook of her arm.

“We w-will survive…I will n-not let him h-hurt us.” Could she guarantee such a folly?

After, the horrors she bore witness to, in Ramsay’s cruel stead.

Sons were difficult. Impossible to control. She prayed to the Gods his temperament was that of her brothers. Her family. That he could be like Robb—or Bran. Fierce—but loyal.

She prayed—but would her prayers be answered?

“I…I want to see him.” Daring to say the words. Her eyes cracked open.

Theon met them with sorrow-written within his own. For a long moment—Sansa thought he might, deny her.

Finally, He piped up.

“A-As you wish.” He stood.

Sansa recognized his nudity—for the first time, since she woke.

“Have you not dressed?”

Theon halted, seemed to recognize himself, his lack of attire.

“No.” Sheepishly, shy-eyes met hers.

“Put on a tunic at least…” Mild, amusement lit in her eyes. Perhaps she could find a bit of enjoyment—somewhere.

If not in the child she now had to contend with.

Blushing, furiously, Theon crossed their chambers. Yanked a tunic from the dresser, hurried it over his head—prior to scurrying out the door.

Left alone in emptiness. Sansa listened to the crackle of the fire. Recalled the rough, firm kicks of the child as it grew. Recalled her fear. The adamant manner in which she claimed it would kill her. This babe nearly had—and yet…

She was still its mother.

The only babe she would ever know. And it was tainted.

Toxic.

Just like her.

Sansa jolted as the door hinges creaked. Theon entered. Infant-bundled in a woolen-blanket, tucked within his arms.

He would not peer down at it. All signs of insistence that the babe would be good—were gone.

She witnessed disdain in his eyes. Hatred. Fear.

Preparing herself. She took the babe from him.

Let her fingers brush the sleeping cherub of the babe’s cheek. Thumb swiped over soft, angelic-skin. There was warmth. Light.

She felt her heart slow. The babe opened its eyes. Blue things found their way into hers. Cheeks upturned in a little, slight, smile. Eyebrows furrowed. Theon was stock still by her bedside.

“Sit.”

He complied. Stripped off the tunic--Nestled right up to her side. Permitted bare skin to touch.

“He has Robb’s eyes, Theon.” Calmly, she surveyed the babe. Rubbed, soft fingers through curly-wisps of hair-strands. “Robb’s hair…”

Tears flooded her eyes—this time—for a different reason.

Sansa did not see Ramsay in her son.

But her beloved brother. Her father. Her mother.

She saw her family reflected back at her. Theon was stock still.

Unmoving—uncommenting.

Could he see it now, too?

This babe she feared so completely—was no monster.

It was just a child.

Theon was right before—he was hers to raise. Influence.

Love. And she would love him. Ramsay, never knew love. Not from a mother.

In silence, Sansa nestled the little being at her breast. He suckled, gentle, pulling sucks.

Theon gaped. Apparent astonishment written on his face.

“S-Sansa…”

“Do you not see it? You looked upon my brother’s face for so many years. Can you deny the similarities?” Docile whispers came from her throat. Rocking the little creature, she made humming noises in her throat.

Theon swallowed. “I do, Sansa.” Finally, he agreed. Flickers of light shone in his eyes.

Hope.

“We will raise him to be good. Like you said. You can teach him to be a man, and I will teach him to be loving. Kind.” Her head leaned on Theon’s broad-shoulder.

“I…I cannot. I know not, how to be a man, Sansa. Not anymore.”

“You are a man, Theon. You never stopped being a man. Ramsay could not take your gender from you.” Shaky-fingers closed around his. “You are the father of my son. He will need you.”

For an instant—light shone in sea-green orbs.

“Y-You want me to be his father?” Seeking approval.

Sansa nodded. “You always were. You are my husband.” Reassurances parted from soft-petals. Love shone in her gaze.

The babe suckled her dry—and she shifted him to the other breast. Let him drink his fill.

“What will you name him?”

For a long moment—she thought on it. “Robb. He shall be named, Robb Greyjoy.”

Shocked tears, parted down Theon’s cheeks. Speechless. Theon gaped.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Sorry for the delay, between parts! I am working on a few different Game of Thrones fanfictions at the moment! The Yara/Theon one is very long, and taking alot longer for me to write the three intended parts! I am also working on a separate Theon/Sansa one, that will be in a different timeline than this one! So if interested in reading them, they will be posted on here, as I write them! The first part of Yara/Theon is up. And I am currently working on the second part. I have yet to post the second Sansa/Theon, but will do soon! I love hearing from you all, and adore the excitement surrounding this fiction! You all make my days!_


	22. Part 22; To Call Iron Out.

_**Part 22; To Call Iron Out.** _

 

* * *

 

> _I’ve grown accustomed to my_
> 
> _brokenness._
> 
> _it’s the only thing keeping_
> 
> _me whole._

 

* * *

 

 

_**Theon** _

 

Theon was humbled by his wife’s decision to name the tiny babe after him—No babe could carry a Bolton’s last name.

Not after…

Skin tightened at the sheer implication of what could become of a child unfortunate enough to carry that last name.

Upon further examination—Theon saw Stark-features within the newborn’s cherubic face. Round eyes; fiery, challenging-blue like that of the ocean.

Like Sansa’s.

Skin baby-soft. Fragile enough so that blue-veins peaked right through.

Without even a dollop of pressure—destruction could come to the little being.

Theon recognized the innocence; the delicacy.

Something changed in Sansa’s eyes. In her heart, perhaps. What mother could endure such pain—almost unavoidable death—in order to birth a creature into the world—and not see love in it?

Endearment?

Even Cersei had loved Joffrey until the bitter, unavoidable end. Despite the heads he called for—and blatant disregard for human life—at every bend.

Theon pushed aside unkeen thoughts.

This was his baby too, now. His heir.

Despite Ramsay’s hand in little Robb’s existence; Theon would attempt to love him.

Even as Sansa held him for hours on end. Cooed. Sang. Giggled.

Theon found comfort near the crackling peak of the fire. Sansa would not notice him for hours—sometimes an entire day.

Was it loneliness? Jealousy? —As Reek, Theon had known both in equal measure. Long windows of time without Ramsay’s cruel touch—and yet. When Ramsay dragged soft, careful rags over long-abused, aching skin—somehow, he felt pleased.

Cared for.

It was sick.

To put those emotions on the one responsible for stripping his most sensitive bits away. For making him unable to conceive a true heir of his own.

Perhaps, it was jealousy. For what Ramsay was permitted beyond that grave—that he could never know.

How he longed to give Sansa a bundle of radiant joy that made her beam, like that. With a glow—translucent—all-consuming.

What could he give her? But ruts between her thighs like a dog—not even seed to be spilled. Just throbs, aches to be subdued.

When he looked at his own self-worth—he saw little there. So very little.

But he would not put a dagger to his throat—would not end it so cruelly; so as to remove Sansa’s joy. She would blame herself—never love her son so brightly.

So completely.

So, Theon would suffer it. Silently.

The same as he did, as Reek. Theon was adept at playing at obedience. Curled upon the settee, scorched by fire-flames, with untold heat—Theon bent.

Ramsay’s favorite reminder to him always happened to be that things which refused to bend—Would break. One way—or another. They would exist no more.

Theon used to make her smile that way. Now—she scarcely let the babe be taken from her arms. At times, little Robb even slept there. Nestled to a pink nipple. Feasting on her swollen teat. Was it wrong that he fantasized about latching on himself? Knowing a mother’s sweet milk?

Perhaps it was the lack of nurturing, Theon could recall. So many memories had been stolen from him. The thought made him stiffen. Touch where he had no right to touch.

Shudder with the pleasure of it. Sansa never looked up—never noticed.

After two weeks—Theon found business elsewhere. Placed armor over marked skin—and attached his sword to his hip.

He only desired to feel useful again.

It was a crime for a cock-less man to want. Selfishly—Theon wanted. And not just wanted—needed. Affection. Love. Reassurance.

But he would not beg. He could not bring guilt forth in Sansa’s calm ocean-blues.

Pretended it did not hurt that she did not ask for his naked frame against hers. He missed that warmth—Now, she had baby Robb for comfort. Mothering instincts were strong in her. The same as Lady Catelyn’s had been. Sansa resembled her mother now. In many conceivable ways.

Theon learned to cry in silence. So, she would not hear over the crackle of firelight, or innocent baby-coos.

He had given his hand—his body—to keep her alive. Willed her to live, but the Gods were cruel. Her life, meant she changed. Returned from the precipice of death—a changed woman.

Strong as ever—no longer so afraid.

Not as he was afraid. Not as he feared the close bond she cemented with little Robb. What if Robb grew? Saw Theon as an obstacle in the way of his eternal happiness with Sansa? It was a stretch—but not considering his parentage.

A month passed, and Theon was starved for Sansa’s affection. Even a touch would liven his mood. Cement his ache for her attention. Able to move from bed again—Sansa merely choice to do so, on rare occasions. To settle Robb in her arms, whisper revered tales of her brother. The self-proclaimed King in the North.

Even Jon sought joy in the newborn. One of his own was on the way with his Dorne wife.

Only Theon would never know how that felt.

The anticipation—and joy. With little Robb—he thought he might be ill. Through ninety-percent of the pregnancy. He fretted for Sansa. Still did.

Tonight, was any other night, much like the last. But Robb was tucked within his crib. Sansa, alone on their supposedly shared, marital bed. It took little persuasion for Theon to talk himself out of resting his head there, this last month. After all, the settee proved kinder than where he found sleep, when Ramsay owned him.

“Theon.” Sansa’s voice called to him. Beckoned in cooing tones.

Startled, to hear his name on her tongue—shock-waves of pleasure lit his hibernating heart.

“Sansa? Have you need of something?” Ears perked—Theon waited.

Confirmation was all he would accept.

“Come here.” Was all she would say.

Theon nearly tumbled over his own stumbling feet to rush to her bedside. Hand sought hers. How long it had been since he felt that warmth.

Desire sparked up his spine. But he would not jump her bones. Theon would not prove to her—that he was still a hound that needed to rut for gratification.

Eager-eyes awaited her words. What use did she have for him? What might she need? Covers were tucked round her sides.

Breasts, swollen with milk were aptly hidden under the silken-fabric of her nightgown. Wet spots stained the fabric where milk leaked out.

“Does little Robb, upset you?”

Of all the statements, and questions in the world—this was least expected. So, Theon gawked, dumbly. His mind, immediately sought the—proper—answer.

Was this a trick question.

“He is my son, and heir. Of course, he does not upset me.” Carefully, Theon rehearsed the answer inside his head—prior to letting it tumble from his sore lips.

Where she to observe his hands close—she would find the space where blood scabbed over. Nails having dug in, as his days grew more riddled with untold stressors.

Perhaps he had even taken to chewing on his poor, bottom lips with crooked teeth—but who would call him on it?

Knowing eyes, regarded his with careful, precision. “Theon. You never need fear me, Husband.”

As though reminding him that they were bound together in matrimony—Theon’s stomach churned. He could never forget. His wife’s beauty was more than he would ever deserve in a lifetime. He carried that truth under his skin, every day.

“I do not fear you.” That was the truth.

He did not fear his wife.

“But you still fear, Little Robb?”

Theon shook his head—maybe too quickly for her to relay his reassurance as truth.

She sighed. “Why do you never hold him? Share in his moments? You missed his first laugh. And you no longer share my bed.”

Chills spread up his spine. How could he sleep alongside her? She never invited him, too. And the babe was always in her arms. Until, tonight.

Theon shifted in discomfort. “Ask what you need of me, Sansa.” It was simpler to ask—than guess. When he guessed—He gave too much away.

“Am I…unattractive to you, Theon?”

Quizzically, Theon’s eyebrows drew together. She had put on weight since the babe was born. Her diet not, healthy. Her skin no longer appeared gaunt—her bones did not stick out. Pudge was on her form—But not fat. Regardless, he would love her if she gained a hundred pounds.

“Of course, not! Am I unattractive to you?!” He did not mean to snap. But he tired of her speaking to him like a chastised little boy. Weeks of frustration—loneliness—self-loathing, amounted to the blame falling at his feet—again. “Did you want me to force my way into your bed? Is that it? Should I have done something different? Am I just too stupid to recognize what you wanted me to do?!”

Theon never meant to raise his voice. Never meant to become frustrated. But he never did this. He never stood up for himself. He let her cast him aside—Let her make him believe it was his fault. He was fucked up. Of that he was certain—but so was she.

Seemingly, stunned, Sansa’s eyes widened. Then, she blinked back tears.

“You…You could never be stupid, Theon. I would never blame you…”

“Blame me for what, exactly? What have I done?” Fury wrote into his eyes. He felt strong—alive. And tired, all at once.

“A-Anything.” Sansa defended.

“Do you do it on purpose? Cast me aside so that I am ravenous by the time you plead for me again? Do you get off on my need? Is that it?” He was so worked up—from months—years—of being silent—pathetic. That all he felt was contempt. Contempt for his own stupidity—His own failures.

“Theon—”

“What do you want from me?! Tell me what you want!” His tone raised to shouts. Hands balled into fists—nails dug into skin, until it broke—then bled.

“T-Theon…Please…”

“I feel ashamed enough to have to take you like a dog in rut—but to be denied until I ache—until I just want relief…Sansa…I do not want to be ashamed anymore…I feel so ashamed.” His voice faltered—and he backed away from the bed. Remembered every other time. The need—how it shaped him. Quivered in his belly. Nothing would prevent him this time, from suckling from her. The shame was too much—far too much.

He bent—and bent---now—he broke.

Stormed from their chambers. As fast as his feet might carry him. Past guards—servants—Lords—Ladies. Out into the courtyard. He felt the wind whip his face. The chill settle into his bones. He wanted to freeze. To lower his pulse—to make his stub deflate. So that he would be able to control himself. He would have taken her—right there on the bed. Shamefully.

He would have done it.

And he would not have held back.

Just like every other time before.

Is that why she purposefully removed the baby? For one night? And then she might return to ignoring him for a month? Until the phantom aches took over. Until he needed it so bad—phantom memories of his cock came into play.

Sprawled on her back with her skirts up—she had played this game with him. Even then. As a little girl, budding on pubescence. He figured out the game. Manipulative, impulsive—and probably, exactly what a cock-less, squabbling, imbecile like him, deserved.

Huddling, against the stone-wall. The frigid cold stung his cheeks. But he only shivered, refused to return to his chambers for a warmer bit of clothes. He ignored his surroundings—and then felt warm arms coil around him from behind.

Her scent met his nostrils—and he ached.

“Sansa…I told you…I cannot, exist this way.” He all-but moaned at the feel of her, full-breasts at his back.

She would freeze out here—She only had a coat thrown clumsily over her gown.

“You did not tell me you were aching, Husband. Do you think me a mind-reader?”

Theon turned docile; harsh tones died on his tongue. Her hand snaked underneath the top of his breeches. Index finger found sensitive-nerves on his stub. Theon jolted.

“S-Sansa—N-Not here…”

Hot breaths, brushed his ear. “Yes here. Right here, against this wall, no-less. Show me what I’ve done to you, Husband. Make me pay for it. Right here, in the courtyard.”

Two fingers circled him. Applied pressure until he throbbed. Hips jutted forward. Skin crawled with lusts.

She had done this to him on purpose—Oh, how he knew she had.

And yet—Gods—He could not prevent his reaction.

“You think I do not see you stare at my breasts when I feed, Little Robb? Do you want to suckle from me, Theon? Or is it the remnants of Reek that wants to feed? Ramsay hurt him. Does he want motherly comfort, Theon? Do you?” Coaxing tones made him nearly burst against her fingers. And even then, he would not have known satiation.

There were warm bodies in the courtyard. Servants minding their tasks. Soldiers loyally guarding the gates—this could not happen—not here…

But—Theon could not overcome the shock. Of hearing Sansa speak this way—Of hearing her appeal to his other half—his dormant—yet, very real, other-half. Theon—and Reek needed protection. From heartbreak—from Sansa. So here he was.

For her.

Just as she called for him to be. He took Theon’s name. Retained all those memories that Theon, and Reek endured—and came when Sansa called. Paved the way for this body to have true abilities to wake in the morning. To sleep (on occasion) at night.

And finally, yell at Sansa—when it was warranted.

“You think I do not know who you are? A protector. A dominant, piece of the man I love? I want to see all of him. So yes, I made you need me. I admit it. I let you view me breast-feeding. Let you touch yourself near the fire each night. I needed to entice them. Give them a reason to come out—give you a reason to lose control…” Sansa hummed in light, breaths.

“What is your name? You real name? Hm? Tell me.”

Theon’s mind spun. Grainy memories surfaced. Her touch was driving him rampant. And his need—outweighed his humiliation at being driven to this. He did not choose this broken body—rather it chose him. Needed him.

And now—He felt exposed.

“My name, is what you make it. I came into this form—for you. And oh, I want you, Sansa. This body screams for you. Theon—Reek—Me. We all burn for you.” He braced her against the wall. Let her back meet hard-stone.

“Then take what you need—but let them have it, too.”

His stomach churned; skin was alight.

“They are not stable enough to emerge—You saw what became of Reek when he did.”

“I want to heal them—Heal you. Let me try. You are what is left of who Theon was before—are you not? His cocky—lustful side?” Sansa hummed.

His cheeks flamed with heat. “Yes—” He admitted.

Lips found the curve of her neck. Suckled on her skin. Still, that tantalizing-finger pad roughly grazed his stub. Drove him half out of his damned mind. He hoisted her up—ignored shocked features of passersby—and hoisted up her nightdress. Found bare-crippling warmth on display.

“No smallclothes?” He chided—eyes ablaze. “You have asked for this—”

Unlatching his belt, he let his sword cascaded to the snowy Earth. Pushed his breeches down only to rut against her gash. Like an animal, his hands sought out her nightdress—tore it open—revealed her breasts in his frenzy.

Silently—He rummaged for Reek—found him hiding in the furthest reaches of his psyche—and pulled.

Reek emerged—twitches—prominent on his skin. Hands trembled—shook; He found that the throb of the little stub (he usually preferred to forget existed) was more than he could withstand. He was not strong enough to cease this body’s rutting.

“L-Lady S-Sansa…Forgive m-me…” Horrified eyes locked with hers. Recognition came into her view.

“Shh, Reek, I want you to feel pleasure. I will take care of you. I know what you need, Hm? You crave affection? Something Ramsay would never give you.” Such kindness, lit the backdrop of her eyes. Sincerity.

Reek was unused to sincerity.

He did not trust it.

For the first time, trained eyes found where his hands had torn her gown open. Left solid, leaking mammaries, right out in the open-air. Pink-nipples appeared, hard-inviting. Temptation instilled by the constant, uncontrollable ruts against her apex, made hesitation dwindle.

“I know he broke so many of your teeth…Milk will be gentle on your gums…Filling for your belly. Go on…”

Reek was close to tears—this was the first time anyone cared to staunch even a fraction of his pain. So much pain existed for him. All the time. Pleasure was alluring his senses—and Reek finally gave in. Attached to her nipple. Sansa gave a low moan, as he pulled her milk into his mouth.

She was right—the liquid-texture was soothing in his mouth. And he felt his urgency only increase. And he rutted like an animal—like a hound—against her dripping cunt. Lost to sensation. To her arms.

Reek felt the pulse of her pearl against his stub. She came undone against him—and he, too felt his overworked frame spend.

Theon pushed his way through—the need to have the woman he was bound to—far too tempting to resist.

He had not been in control since their wedding night. He felt the thrill of holding her—almost too much.

“My wife…” Disconnected from her milky-nipple. Theon’s eyes shimmered.

“Theon?” Disbelief came out.

He nodded his head—and she stole a kiss from him. Seemed to lick the milk that remained on his lips—right off with her tongue. All the while—Theon rutted—despite his release—He needed more.

“Jon will be so upset with us.” He breathed.

Sansa gripped his shoulders, “Let him be.”

Arms entwined round her middle; Theon bucked until he felt himself spent a second time against her. His skin twinging with need.

It all faded—and the dominant persona emerged. Deciding it was all the others could take—for now. So exposed, out in the open like this—it was shameful. And despicable—also dangerous. A guard was blatantly watching them rut, like beasts—not even attempting to hide his arousal at the sight.

“Sansa—They cannot take this—out in the open, like this…Reek would have come apart, if I let him stay.”

Tears rolled down her cheeks, but she still clung hold.

“Then take what you need. I do not think you care so much, about who sees, do you?” She challenged.

“No, Sansa. I do not fucking care who sees.” He felt free to be himself—rather than Theon, or Reek. He was dominant—in control. And now—Sansa knew it, too.

And that was the truth of it. He was in need—and that was all that mattered at this point.

He rutted, suckled from her. Rubbed her pleasure pearl until she came apart—and reveled in his own skill—as she sprayed him with her juices.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so sorry again, for the delayed update! I spent most of the day writing a very extensive chapter for Yara/Theon. Which was ridiculously long! I promise I will continue to update this quickly, in the future! I hope you all are enjoying it so far! You guys are amazing, readers! And so passionate about these bbys! Thank you for that!


	23. Part 23; To Build Trust

**_Part 23; To Build Trust._ **

* * *

 

> _There is a crack_
> 
> _In everything._

 

* * *

 

**_Sansa_ **

 

“You two! I have had quite enough of your blatant disregard for common decency!” Jon stormed from one end of his chambers to the other. Clearly, disgusted.

Not even making an attempt to hide it.

Stood, in the tattered remnants of her nightie, familiar furs coiled around her bodice. Just above swollen-breasts. Cheeks-flushed. Hair-ruffled—drying snow melted on hair-strands.

Theon was in no better condition. Curls, untamed stuck up on end. Defiance shone in his eyes. This was the very first time, Sansa ever saw Theon openly, stood against Jon.

“Why do you care, where I fuck my wife? She had it coming!”

Jon’s face turned bright-red. Stunned, even the snowy direwolf lifted its head in acknowledgement.

“Theon! Let me handle this…” Anticipation swam in Sansa’s belly. Excitement at the blatant glimmer inside of Theon that was not there before.

Had he truly been play-acting as his weaker counterparts? All this time…For her?

Pondering the question—Sansa nearly forgot where they were.

Half-bared. Dripping with wetness—and her juices—huddled in front of Jon’s hearth. Being told off like naughty-children.

“Oh, No. I have been wanting to have words with this self-righteous prick for a while now.” Theon spoke clear, concise words. As though they came naturally to him.

He claimed to be a defender of his weaker halves. Sansa understood now, how that could be.

“Your wife, is also my sister, and she deserves respect! Not to be humiliated in front of the entire courtyard!” Jon blustered; anger surged in blackened-hues.

“Yea? Well she followed me out into that courtyard. Stuck her hand down my breeches, and practically dared me to. So, I obliged.” Theon chanced her a glance. A mild-smirk stole over his features. Hauntingly like the one he reserved only for her—in youth.

“You two are worse than a couple of dogs in rut! Do you know that? You should both be ashamed! And you, Sansa! You are a mother now. To a babe. He can not grow, only to find his parents rutting right out in the open, on the grounds of Winterfell! It is disgraceful! And if Father were here to see this—It would break his heart!”

Sansa felt shame rise in her belly. She knew these things—and yet they had not prevented her from pursuing Theon into the cold-damp snow.

Theon’s eyes sparked dangerously, but he wisely, clamped his mouth shut.

“It…will not happen…again…”

“See that it does not. Now, off to bed. Both of you!” Jon ordered.

Sansa scurried from Jon’s chambers. Theon hot on her trail.

Once, inside. Theon’s arms wound round her waist. Grasped her breasts, after he yanked down the furs covering her decency.

She gasped in shock. He palmed her, ravenously. Clearly—he was still insatiable, despite their wanton display less than a half hour ago.

“You ever, tease me that way again—and I will find a harsher punishment than just rutting in the courtyard with you.” Chills surged up her spine. Sansa’s mouth parted in low pants as she arched back into him.

“I…I am sorry. I merely wanted to help you, Theon…” That was the truth. Despite how wicked her actions had become.

“Frustrating Reek, and Theon will only make them antsy. It will not bring them out, Sansa. Only I can permit that.”

“Are they…with you all the time? How can I speak to them, then?” Sansa inquired; eyebrows drawn together.

“They influence me. Sometimes, yes. But I protect them, both. Keep them **safe**. Theon convinced me we were unworthy of you. That we needed to give up, when you sent us away—but I held out—as long as I could. I restrained this body from taking us away from you. I want you, Sansa. We all do. Even Reek. Perhaps, Reek wants it most.” Theon paused. Seeming to ponder.

“He does?” Surprise jolted through her. Reek appeared to be the most child-like. She recalled various instances when he sought out, her permission to follow through on the simplest of acts. Such as sleeping places—and using the privy.

 Sansa felt helpless.

How could she help this man? Her husband?

 “Will you let me speak to Reek?”

Theon searched her eyes. “He is very delicate, Sansa. You cannot repair him. Neither of them can be repaired.”

Sansa relinquished a huff of air. “I know that he is. I would never hurt him. Do you not trust me, Husband? You share a body with Reek, and Theon. But I am married to **all** of you. I want to know them, Theon. Let me?” Reaching up, soft-fingers grazed over the stubble of his cheek. Brushed over the silken-fabric of his tunic. “I know how your body aches. How many scars you have…How many Reek has. He needs someone to take care of him. He needs his wife.”

She stole a kiss from him. Lingered for a moment. Then smiled.

“Please? Husband…?”

Theon huffed, “Fine. But when he pisses himself, and hides in a corner, do not say I did not warn you.”

Sansa was unafraid to face his personalities, now. She understood that he would not depart for good. He would return—when he was needed.

Suddenly, she noted the change in his posture. Hunched slightly, Reek emerged. Green eyes jotting over their chambers. Skin paling, as if by mere instinct. She need not feel his pulse to know his heart had sped.

“L-Lady Sansa…I apologize for…for what I d-did. I s-should not have…It was s-shameful.” Reek stumbled over his words.

“Shhh, Reek. It is okay. I wanted you to. I asked you to, remember? You are in no trouble, Reek. Everything I said—I meant.” Shifting eyes found hers. Disbelief wrote into them.

She could imagine his thought process. The turning gears that told him to survey her for the next trick.

“It is not a trick. Come here, Reek. Sit.” Sansa settled on the edge of the bed. Her breasts still hung from the ruined gown. His eyes connected to them—and did not leave.

He crossed over to her. Settling on the rabbit-furs, hesitantly.

“You can touch me, Reek. You are my husband, after all.” She gave him an encouraging smile.

His eyes widened—but he made no move to touch. Instead, Reek flushed.

“I am not a h-husband. Not to you, L-Lady S-Sansa.”

“Of course, you are, Reek. I love you.” Reassurances fell from pink-lips.

She watched as he fidgeted. Wide-eyed with apparent awe. He did not further attempt to correct her.

“What if we take a bathe, Reek? Just the two of us? Would you like that? We can make you clean again? Soothe some of your aches?” Her hand enclosed around his tremor-laden one. Brushed the stub where his index finger once had been.

Tears wet Reek’s eyes. Hope lighting up behind them. “Do you…m-mean it? A b-bath?”

Finally, having broken through, Sansa nodded. “I mean it. We both need to bathe, after our little session out in the courtyard.”

Reek pulsed with heat; She felt it underneath encouraging-fingertips.

He merely nodded in response.

With a triumphant smile, Sansa drew her nightgown closed, only to set off. Tracked down a servant, instructing her to prepare a bathing tub, for their needs.

Sansa doubted Reek had ever felt the heated waters of bath water. The soothing burn would subside some of his prolonged pain.  There were various methods in The Seven Kingdoms for those that had underwent strenuous tortures of the flesh. Although, Sansa had never particularly laid eyes upon one so bad as her husband. She would doubt that there had ever been a living creature more marked up than Theon. It was no wonder his mind had split ways in an attempt to rectify his endurances.

The tub was prepared, whilst Sansa sat, alongside Reek. Fingers joined with his. He was silent, disbelieving his eyes—but she could almost taste his excitement. He was trembling with suspense.

When the servants departed, and it was just the two of them, once more. Sansa stood. Beckoning for Reek to join her.

Awkwardly, wringing his hands—Reek stood. Eyes, hooded. Admiring the subtle steam as it flowed off the surface of the tub-water.

“Reek?” Sansa cooed.

His eyes shifted to her, hesitantly. “Y-Yes, My L-Lady?”

“Come here.” She extended her hands to him. He came. “Help me out of my nightgown?” Green eyes gaped. Skin flushed, but timid-fingers found her gown. Guided it (with slight difficulty) over her head. She recognized the little twitches he gave—proof of his painful existence.

Naked before him, Sansa reached for his tunic, coaxing it over his head, in turn.

Every time she gazed upon her husband’s form—it made her stomach twinge in upset.

To know his consciousness between Theon, and Reek had endured all of these sufferings—made it all the worse to view. Especially, when Reek was the spirit holding on to the battered frame. He was so delicate. Sensitive.

Her hands lowered. His back stiffened. Beginning to tremble, his flesh pulsed underneath her touch. He squirmed.

“No one will ever hurt you again, Reek. You have my word.” Sansa felt it important to remind him. As **often** as possible. Especially when his face dropped—eyes refused to meet hers.

He was silent. So, she proceeded.

Unlaced tied breeks. Reek’s tremble, worsened. Until…

Sansa exposed, scarred privates. Silent tears rolled down, pallid cheekbones.

Sansa’s eyes trained on his. “Shh, Reek, focus on my voice. I am going to care for you now.”

One nod, was his only acknowledgement of kind-intended, words.

“Climb in.” Sansa coaxed in even tones.

Reek wasted no time in sinking underneath steaming waves. Low-inhuman sounds of relief shuttered from his throat. Sansa stood in the heated water, only to nestle down, thighs straddling Reek’s lap.

Before Reek could panic, Sansa enclosed her lips over his. In a soothing—tender kiss. Reek moaned, arms snaked around her middle, instinctively. And Sansa, sighed into the sensation.

“Reek?” Sansa broke the kiss, balanced her hands on his chest.

Warm-eyes sought hers. “Yes, M-My Lady?”

“Do you like it here? With me?” Curiously, Sansa searched his eyes for the truthful answer in them. Despite the anxiety that plagued him. She found the truth, readily enough.

“Y-Yes, My Lady. Y-You are…k-kind.”

She knew that Ramsay had created Reek for his own sadistic intentions. Used him as an instrument of abuse against Theon, but Sansa saw Reek in a different light. He was innocent. Sweet. Tender. He was still Theon. Still, structurally, in-league with all of the things Theon desired. Merely, unable to reach out—and grasp them on his own.

“Will you ever trust me, Reek? Not to hurt you?”

He seemed to ponder the question. Mull it over in his mind.

“I a-already do…M-My Lady.” Sansa could see the trust in green-hues.

Reaching out, Sansa curled long-fingers around his bony-wrists. Guided them up—over her supple-breasts. Without words, proceeded to guide warmed-hands. Reek wracked with tremors the entire time, but made no move to retract. Slight pulses of his stub, warned her of his excitement. Breaths rose—heaved—in his chest. Lips-pinkened with color. Eyes glazed over with lust.

“M-My L-Lady…” Barely an octave above mere whispers. Reek’s voice sounded.

“Go on.” Encouragement parted from engaging-petals. Wisps of steam submerged them both in misty-heat. He whined.

Hesitatingly, Reek lowered his head. Guided the dusky-bud, between yearning-lips. Sucked—immediately rewarded with a spurt of her body-warmed, mother’s milk.

She felt the throb rise from his stub. Instinctively, Reek began to arch his hips up. Seeking out that pleasure. Almost subconsciously. She saw his eyes close. Fingers brush over her skin. And moaned from the sensation. It was surreal to feel, her husband’s full-lips around her breast. Almost enticing. It made her throb with need from it.

“Do not be afraid, Husband. Take as you need.” Calm, reassurance spouted from red-lips. Ocean-eyes rolled back—hips bucked. And Reek began to lose himself to the invigoration. Rutting up against her, she felt him suck, until the milk ran dry, but still continued—regardless.

Tongue-dragged over the nipples. Mewls came from his throat. Heat flushed over both of their skin—and she felt him tremble. Quiver. Whine.

He came undone.

Squealed with the sensation. Gathered her to his chest. And squeezed her tight.

It was not until the waves of euphoria passed, that Reek’s grip loosened. Mouth fell away from her swollen, nipple.

Nearly, apologetic eyes found hers.

“M…S-Sorry…” Breathlessly, Reek apologized.

“You never need to apologize, Reek. Not for seeking pleasure.” She promised. Lips grazed the top of his head. Subtly.

“Will you always w-want me, S-Sansa?” Whispered, almost silent words parted.

Her heart cinched.

“Of course, Reek. We belong to each other.”

 

 

* * *

 

**_Reek_ **

 

Ramsay always insisted Reek was unworthy of amenities of any manner. After, enduring such abuse at cruel, unkind hands. Reek knew better than to touch another person.

Kiss. Touch. Love.

But Sansa…She brightened him.

Livened his existence.

Sansa reached for the cloth. Made to bathe, scar-smeared flesh.

 Slow at first. Cleaned grime, from quivering skin. Low, subtle rubs brushed against him.

Reek shuddered.

Twanged low in his belly. Even after the ruined-scarred flesh of his stub—went flaccid.

Her tight-heat was still just on top of him. Even though Ramsay had persisted he was no man—Reek still gained those pleasures. Sensations.

He punished himself, mentally, for them.

Even married to this beautiful female—Reek felt undeserving. Shivering—Reek clenched his eyes shut. His skin never smelt so clean. Fresh. Leisurely—Reek returned the favor. Bathed Sansa’s porcelain-scarred skin. She too, had suffered. He recalled watching as she was raped. Ramsay was cruel to her.

Unkind.

The same as he was to him.

Reek hated to see Sansa suffer. Did she still feel what that monster did to her?

Reek doubted his marks would ever fade. His genital scars never would. They were seared into him. Part of him.

Finished cleansing her skin. Reek timidly lowered the rag. Felt it fade into warm-water. Satisfied, Reek allowed Sansa to guide him from the tub. Dry him with a fluffy woven-towel—and into a nightgown.

Timidly, Reek rubbed rough-palms over smooth-fabric. Drank in the clean, unfamiliar scent. Shivered in the soft-cloth.

So, enraptured in the sensitive feel—Reek did not notice Sansa’s absence. Not until she returned. Babe in arms, stood before him.

Wide-eyes found the babe. Sank within, inviting embrace. Cooing, roused from sleep.

“This is Robb Greyjoy, Reek. Your, son.”

Reek was aware of the pregnancy. Watched as that stomach bulged. Grew—Even though he never came into control of their form—Darkness had swept through him. Ramsay’s child. Theon named father.

He shivered. “N-Not…M-Mine. R-Ramsay’s…” Fear struck in his heart. Yet, Sansa stood proud. Babe cuddled in safe-arms. Soul, glistening. Inbred with light.

“Ours. Our son will never know Ramsay’s name. Only what we provide him.” Lowered on the bed. Sansa pressed warm. Firm. Against him.

Solemn-eyes searched the babe. Skin crawled. The thought of Ramsay. Firm-hands. Unkind personality. Induced trauma in Reek. He fell silent.

“Do you want to hold him?” Sansa extended the pink-fleshed bundle toward him.

Reek shook. Eyes-bulged. It was a baby. Just a baby.

Reek never held one before. Once…maybe—in another life…

Visions. Swirls of color invaded him. Images of proud-eyes. Supple-skin. Sweat-clung to a round-warming face. Theon’s memories. Not his. Kyra—the farmer’s wife. Prideful. Holding the bundle—extended towards Theon.

Reek shoved the memory down.

In quiet, contemplation—Reek allowed the bundle to fall into his arms.

Pink-cheeked. Cooing up at him. Tears flooded Reek’s eyes.

Sniffling. He descended into sobs.

“See? He is harmless.” Soothing-circles rubbed into Reek’s spine. Seeking out the crook of Sansa’s neck he pushed his nose into it. All, whilst rocking the innocent being in his arms.

Another broke through the barrier in his mind. Theon—Reek could feel him pushing for control. Wavering. Reek gave in—descended back into darkness.

Retracted from her neck. Sea-green optics surveyed the bundle. Theon had only viewed the babe through his protector’s eyes.

Now. He felt love, pulse in his heart. Skin enflames.

“You named him for me.” Theon whispered. His heart felt strangled.

“Theon?” Sansa pried, clearly unaware of his emergence.

“I am here, Sansa.” His skin fluttered. Cleanliness made him feel safe. Cared for.

Wetness rimmed Tully-optics. Theon reached up; swiped one clear from warm-skin.

“Please. Do not go away for so long, again.” Sansa made the plea—but Theon knew his body. His mind. How fractured it was. Irreparable.

“I will try, Sansa. I made you a vow.” Rocking the tender, little life. Theon planted a kiss to the babe’s forhead.

And he meant it.

He **always** meant it.


	24. Part 24; To Find Truth.

**_Part 24; To Find Truth._ **

* * *

****

> _Sometimes the truth will_
> 
> _do worse than set you free._

****

* * *

 

****

**_Theon_ **

****

Sleep overcame his fragile, mind. Drearily, he handed off this little blanketed-bundle. Watched Sansa as she fed little Robb. All he could feel—was pride.

Pride—because Sansa accepted these fanatical parts of him. And now, to trust the spirit of an innocent babe, born from the seed of a monster?

It proved her goodness.

Heavy-eyed, Theon swayed on the edge of the furs.

Felt Reek, pull at the corners of his consciousness.

And gave in.

Reek’s eyes tearfully settled on Sansa. Skin felt hot underneath the thick-material of his nightgown.

“M-My Lady?” Her ocean-eyes found his. Lips tugged into a smile.

“That you in there, Reek?”

Warmth tingled through his frame. He gave a subtle nod.

“I am t-tired.” Droopy-eyes settled, then a yawn, escaped.

Finished feeding, the babe was retracted from her swollen-bosom. Rocked in her comforting embrace.

“I will put Little Robb back in his crib, then we shall sleep, how does that sound? Hm?” She cooed to him with such a honey-sweet voice. He felt loved.

Nodded.

He watched as she left her chambers. Returned in less than a minute. Crossed the rug-covered stone, only to stand before him.

With careful fingers, Sansa drew her nightgown over her head. Let the thick-material cascade to the rug. Startled, Reek gaped at her bare-chested—on display—bodice.

“Stand up, Reek.” Cooing tones with loving expenditure, dainty-fingers grasped the hem of his gown. Yanked it over his head. On display, Reek stained-red in color.

“Come lay down.” Sansa grasped his hand, only to guide him upon the bedsheets.

Settled. Reek laid a few inches from her. His cheeks still on fire.

“This is how a man, and wife should lay, Reek. You are my husband. I want to feel all of you, when we sleep.” Explanations came, and Reek understood.

But felt exposed—Barren.

As though every strip of his soul was on display to her.

It was intensely, intimate. Overwhelming.

Though hardly enough for him to recede into his fractured mind. Instead, Reek buried his face in her neckline. Drank in her creamy-scent. Freshly, bathed, Reek’s skin did not feel raw. Gross. Like it normally would.

He felt like a being. A human. Which was not how Ramsay described him to be. Reek was meant to be a hound. Built for it, actually.

Not a person.

Yet, Sansa longed for him to be a husband. A father. He could not grasp these concepts.

Not yet.

“T-Thank y-you for permitting me to b-bathe, M-My Lady.” Soft, squeaked words of gratitude, befell, chapped-lips.

“You need not thank me, Reek. You may bathe whenever the need arises. You are not a prisoner anymore. Nor a slave. Just a man. My husband. A Lord.”

Reek shuddered. How could he be a Lord?

She was mistaken. That was Theon.

He was **not** Theon.

“Not a L-Lord…J-Just R-Reek.” Babbling with soft tones, Reek allowed his tired-eyes to flick closed.

“I love you, Reek.” Sansa hummed, undeterred by his words.

He sighed. Content.

“L-Love you, t-too, M-My L-Lady.”

With that—He plunged into darkness.

 

* * *

 

 

_**Theon** _

 

Sea-green eyes peaked open against the pale, backdrop of morning sun-streams. Light engulfed their chambers. Muscles rippled under, tired-skin.

And his head— **ached**.

Nuzzled into Sansa’s side, Theon made a low grunt. Kissed the nape of her neck. Lust infused right into his system.

Burned him with need.

Without awaiting permission, he splayed her—still sleeping—bodice wide against, white-sheets—and rutted, hard, against soaked-folds.

Sansa jolted awake in his arms. Quick-wound arms, to encircle his middle. Thighs to hook to his hips. And he rutted—like an animal.

“Did you enjoy your time with my counterparts? Hm?”

Pink-lips widened, choking out gasps.

“T-Theon!” Sharp-nails dug into his spine. He nary, flinched.

His hand ruthlessly sought out her pink-bud. And squeezed. Her thighs quivered. Hips jolted.

Eyes rolled-back—and she came.

Recognition that her enlarged-breasts were leaking milk, registered. He lowered his chin—pulled the warm mixture into his belly in greedy-gulps. No let-up. Not until he felt his own release—surge directly up his spine.

Then—he calmed.

Frustration was apparent in his green-optics. He did not like to give-way control of this body.

His body—he did not trust, the others.

With good reason. Both had attempted to kill this body at one point.

“Sansa. I asked you a question.” Teasing, sparks shone in his optics.

“You saw me, did you not? Whilst they were in control?” Daringly—she taunted him. “Are you jealous? Do you think I like them better?”

Shivers chilled up his spine.

“Do you?” Challengingly, he paired their eyes.

“You are all my husband. I love each of your personalities, the same.” Soothing tones—akin to those she attained with Reek—emerged. His eyes narrowed.

“You are afraid of me.” Wounded. Theon retracted from atop her. Planted his feet, firmly on the rug.

Sansa sat up. Soft-hand, warm to his shoulder. “Of course not. How absurd.”

“I can see it. You have that same look as you held with Ramsay.” Theon finally felt free. Unpredictable. Able to permit his muscles to move as they might have once. Ignored the inflicted agony his strained-muscles endured. It took quite a bit to ignore his afflictions.

But he tried.

She feigned to desire the real him.

Now she gained his ‘real’ self—She wanted no part in him.

“You do not trust me.” Jaw-clenched. Theon gathered his tunic, breeches, smallclothes. Struggled into the fabric, with resentment.

He was this body’s strength. Theon’s strength.

He loved her, just as much. Needed her, perhaps more.

But she saw him as this sentient, unpredictable—monster. Holding back his other personalities from having her. The personalities she **truly** wanted. Had she forgotten that he was here—whilst they hid? If he were gone—the other personalities would crumble.

“I trust you with my life.” Sansa pled from across the room.

“Not with your body, then? Your heart?” He felt stabs of ache in his gut.

“You surprised me. That is all. I…I fell asleep in Reek’s arms. And woke in yours. It was a shock, that is all.” Defensively—She spewed at him.

Theon finished dressing. Turned back to her.

“You love me least, if you love me at all.” Theon deduced. “I will not pertain to wake you that way again, Sansa.” Ice chipped his tone.

Tears welled in delicate-eyes. “I never meant—I did not mean…Theon…” She reached for him.

He recoiled.

“No one ever loved me, when I was this way. When I was **whole**. And this was the only personality I held. Even you could not love me, like this. I hurt you. And I will only hurt you again. But the other personalities are not strong enough to be out at all times, Sansa. So, I will steer clear, until they can manage it. I will return to you, when Reek, or Theon can emerge. But I will leave you in peace, otherwise.” Brokenly, Theon turned, lifted his belt. Latched it around his hips. Sword tucked tight to his side.

“Theon. T-That is not what I meant—”

“I saw you with them. How you loved them. Touched them. You do not do that with me. Not now that you know I exist.” Theon remembered how it was before.

How she loved him.

“You neglected me for a month when you found out. Let me believe you cared more for your son, than me. Left me aching. Tired. Alone. You would not have done such a horrendous thing to a being you cared for. No one would.” How she must despise him. She could not even pretend—not even feign her love.

Sansa’s head shook, “I t-told you, I did it so—”

“So, the others would return. I am **aware** , Sansa. I know. You wanted them bad enough to torture me to have them.”

“I m-missed Theon…I had not seen him in so long. I feared him gone…I just…Theon. Please…I only wished to see them more.”

He could not hear it. Would not.

Lies. It was all a pack of lies.

He stormed from their chambers—left her alone. Naked. With her thoughts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So sorry again for the delay! I am still working on this monster chapter for Theon/Yara and it is taking me forever to complete! I promise I have not forgotten about this work! I am still in love with it!


	25. Part 25; To Forge a Path.

**_Part 25; To Forge a Path._ **

****

* * *

 

> _Truth is, you’re the reason_
> 
> _I do not believe in love anymore._

* * *

 

**Sansa**

Where had Theon gone off, to?

She searched for him. Down endless, hallways. She peaked in on the chambers she provided him when he first arrived.

They were barren. Cold.

She searched next, in the hound pens. It did not go unnoticed that more than a few guards edged near when she ducked into the pens. Perhaps they sought another peep show, believed (wrongly) that she was heading there to have a go with her husband, **again**.

Frankly, Sansa could have cared less, who viewed her in the throes of passion with Theon.

But her belly still stirred with regret over Jon’s words the night previous. He was correct in his surmises. Their father would not have taken kindly to her behavior as a Lady. If he were up in the Seven Heavens where the Old Gods resided, she assumed he felt shame for what she invoked upon herself.

Her **honor**.

Unable to find a trace of Theon in the hound pens she resolved to return to her chambers.

He **always** retreated to **one** of those two spaces—where else might he go?

Her mind reeled with thoughts, the worst of which, was that he had left Winterfell, altogether.

She had not meant to make him feel unloved. It was never her intention—but she did yearn deeply for his other personalities, not because she loved them **more** , but because they emerged less. She yearned to know him. All of him.

She knew so much about his protective personality. He was rougher, clearly, more like the Theon she had grown with. She knew him well—better than any other version of the man she loved. She knew how to tease him. Coax him under her spell.

She knew how to **love** him—despite what he believed.

And she burned for him.

Awoken with her thighs spread, him rutting down into her—had been wondrous. Shocking—but pleasurable, nonetheless.

She had mourned Reek’s departure for a few moments. As the sleepiness eviscerated. But it was enough for Theon to take full-offense.

Sansa headed to the nursery; sought out Little Robb. If she could **not** have her husband—she **would** spend her time with her child.

He was already so big. Every day he sprouted-up in size. His little cheeks were more pronounced, in the roundness. Eyelashes slightly thicker, than the paper-thin line he was born with. Pouty, thin, lips were a tad plumper, then a few days prior.

She balanced Little Robb, cushioned, in her arms. Carried him all the way back to her chambers. She settled on the bed-furs, let her finger dip, evenly, tracing the line of his cheek. Listening to his subtle, little coos as he pumped his fists in the air.

He was such a happy, child. Always giggling, laughing. Smiling. It made her wonder if Ramsay had been just like this once. Or—if he might have been a horrendous little baby. Always screaming. Fussing—Demanding.

When she pictured him—she pictured the latter—Imagined his poor Mother beside herself, with exhaustion as she tended him.

Little Robb, was Sansa’s blessing. She chose to make him one, rather than a burden.

Her son was soft; tender. A low hum vibrated in her throat as she began to rock him, in her arms.

All the while—she wondered where her husband was.

Longed for him to return to her, so that she might apologize. For all of it.

Every step she took with him, seemed a dreadful misstep—and when it did work out, somehow—she could only imagine the next potential fallout to come.

She slipped open the stays on her dress, coaxed her son’s mewling lips right up to her teat. Felt him latch on—and suck. Continuing to hum—she patiently waited—permitted her mind; to go blank.

 

 

* * *

 

**_Theon_ **

 

He spared no moment. Wasted no further breath in attempt to convince, his wife that he was worthy of her affections. Rather, determined that she would never willingly, provide him the love he sought in her.

It was simpler to disappear—at least until one of his other pieces could emerge.

He might be spared the ache in his chest. The drag in his step—if he vanished.

Losing Sansa’s trust, did more than simply wound him. It decimated his confidence.

Theon knew how it felt to lay in her arms. Wrapped in her loving touch—even if all-the-while he had pretended to be his weaker-half, he felt the same conscious emotions that Theon did.

He loved the same. His heart beat—the same.

He was trapped within the parameters of this body, whether he longed to be, or not. He would always long to be whole again.

To be able to bed a lass, in the brothels for a night—just one. And have his fears—his insecurities washed clean, by their ridiculous, doting. He still avidly, recollected the way Ros would coo to him.

Soft—sweet—like a flower. Sometimes, his mind wandered to her. Imagined how her life had turned out. Surely, better than this. Any life, was better than that, of a laughable eunuch, without a lick of self-respect.

He always sought out the same woman. Chased after her skirts like a wanton, little boy. To what end? So, she might degrade him some more? Disregard his worth?

He tired of it.

Swiftly, he shoved a few garments into a knapsack—the few objects he possessed—and headed out. Into the thick-dusting of snow. Listened to the crunch, underfoot. Steered clear of the guards (most paid him no mind as it were) and kept a lookout for Jon, or Sansa—in order to avoid either of them.

Once, outside—he made for Winterfell’s gates—and did not look back.

 

* * *

 

 

He went on foot, for near twenty minutes. Into the village, just alongside Winterfell. He had little coin, perhaps enough from his wages as a protective soldier at Sansa’s behest, he was paid for his position. Before, he was her husband. Now he had access to all of the Stark coin. Though, he had not been prepared for a journey.

He planned only to stay within the village, until he felt Reek, or Theon desire to emerge.

Then he would return.

Right, quick he came into bad-luck when a young man recognized him. Theon Greyjoy—the man that terrorized—then burned their little Lords. His straight-backed stance, quickly hunched over. As he was spit on. Pelted with food—and even punched in the face—when he inquired about a room, at two of the inns.

Hopelessly, Theon ventured toward the only other warm-place that would accept anyone—with coin.

The brothel.

He made a silent vow to himself that he would never step foot in another brothel—but it was there, or Winterfell—and he was not yet ready to face Sansa.

He knew the consequences if he did.

She would use his shortcomings against him. Leverage his rowdiness, in order to drive him back between the bedlinens—and it would work. It **always** did.

Theon felt all of the feminine eyes focused upon him. Could smell the stench of sex, thick in the air. Flames burned—licked in the fireplace, seedy-men piled around. Women slung off several of their laps. Theon’s discomfort level, skyrocketed.

Heartbeats heightened. Pulsed in nervousness.

It was a coin to stay a night with one of the ladies. He could spare the coin—but his belly turned over at the thought of a woman, whom would attempt to touch him— **there**.

Skin crawled. But it was frigid cold, in the snowbanks. Surely, he would freeze to death out there. So, he hunkered down. Settled at one of the lone tables off to the corner. Prayed no one would notice him. Or worse—recognize him.

Though he doubted it would matter. All walks of life were permitted in seedy establishments. It was how they stayed in business. All men—no matter their backstory—were welcome.

Theon kept his eyes down—managed to go unnoticed for a little while—until one of the ladies, caught eyes with him.

Shuffled over.

“Might I be of some service, Milord?” Tender, porcelain skin shone on display. Plump, swollen breasts with puffed-pink nipples. Soft-auburn hair trekked down to her shoulders. If he outright rejected her—it would only draw attention.

Unwanted attention.

So, he extended a coin. Let his eyes travel the length of her skin.

His pulse still heightened. Body still reacted, just as it always had.

His prick-stub, hardened. Thick with blood. Cheeks pinked with color. But he was useless.

No woman—not even a whore—would offer him kindness.

Sansa was special. She only wanted a man who could never hurt her. He figured that out a long while ago. What harm could a cock-less man ever bring to Sansa? He could not take pleasure whilst tearing her open—like Ramsay had.

Ramsay referred to him as a cripple—and he was.

In the eyes of every woman—he most assuredly was.

Subtly, he permitted this stunning, female to guide him into her room.

He purchased her for the night—but the sting in his lower-belly, reminded him he was still a married man. Wed to Sansa—even if she no longer perceived him as someone she could love.

It tore him, internally.

Inside the warmth of this temptress’ chambers, Theon let emerald-optics wander. Scan the little wooden box of a room. Drafty. Chilled. He lowered his knapsack to the floorboards.

Before he could speak, lips attached to his.

Somehow, she tasted of strawberries. Sweet, nectar on his tongue. Starved for the taste—he fell in sync—became carried away. Instinct took over, and he had her back against the door-wood. Felt the pulse of his stump, urging him to rut. Instead, his hands brushed down the span of this female’s form. His mind noted her crisp, clean skin. Not a scar—nor mark upon her. Unlike Sansa, her skin was littered in Ramsay-inflicted scars. She was coarse—unsmooth.

Felt the prod of her nipples even through, his tunic, and cloak.

He was starved for affection—longed for companionship, that did not twist him up inside.

Suddenly—before he could prevent her—a hand snaked down the front of his breeches. Sought his cock. Found only the scarred-pulse of his stub in its place, and abruptly yanked her hand back.

As though shot.

Disconnected from the kiss.

Horror wrote into her features. Shock? Disgust? Dismay?

He was uncertain which of those emotions he was reading from her—however, none of them were particularly good.

Embarrassment, peppered his cheeks in scarlet.

“Milord…I um…How can I service you…if…well…” She stumbled over the words. Clearly—this had never happened to her before. He doubted it ever would again.

Eunuchs were rare in the North.

Humiliation burned deep in his belly.

Sansa was the only girl that could stomach to even **touch** him. He had **known** it. His other halves had seared it into his thoughts. Reminded him whenever he so much as looked at a pretty-flush, female that he could never pursue her. But knowing a thing—and coming face to face with said thing—were wholly different concepts.

Still—he had **hoped**.

Maybe for a moment.

He reached down for his knapsack. Fighting back tears. He was **stronger** than Reek—this would have **destroyed** him—and far better put-together than **Theon** , but still. He was **only** human. He **hurt** , too. His feelings were crushed. All cockiness, erased. He still strutted about the way he had **before** —when he was **whole**. He was no **longer** whole.

Sansa never **cringed** from his cock-less, stump.

He would do **well** to remember that.

He made for the door—as though **remembering** herself—the wench blockaded it—with her form. Halted him in his tracks.

He was prepared to flee. To bury his head in the snow—maybe **stay** there.

But the girl touched his chest. Put her palm just over his heart.

“Tell me what I **can** do, Milord? I…I was startled is all. I meant you no jest…” She was a young-thing. Pretty. He could see by the pale-skinned, look, she gave—just **how** young.

Fourteen? Perhaps.

His best estimate.

He also felt—she was sincere.

“I need rest.” Finally, hoarse vocals, piped up.

Perplexed, she gave a nod.

“You can…touch me…Do as you please to my body, milord.” She wormed his fingers free of his knapsack, straps. Let the knapsack cascade back to wooden-boards. “I will tell no one, of your…anomaly. I am **most** discreet, milord. You kissed as though you are **still** a man of… **urges** , and the like. Whatever—” She sought the proper, least offensive word. “— **satiation** you require, I am certain I have known worse.”

Theon winced.

He was Iron-Born. Perversions were **built** into his blood.

Still—to think this woman believed him a man of unthinkable-perversions…was **atrocious**.

He sympathized. She probably **had** known worse.

His jaw set—clenched. He made no move to speak. **This** was humbling enough—without the thought of what she must believe were his ‘ _perversions_ ’ and ‘ _appetites_ ’ in the bedchamber.

Seeming to sense the tension she crossed the room, lit only by a few stray candle-wicks. Hoisted a wine-decanter from a worn, wooden-table. Poured a clear glass, then turned. Extended it to him. Enticingly.

Then poured a second for herself. Downed it in a flash.

His stomach churned.

But he drank.

Downed the crystal-clear, glass.

“I am **still** , a man.” Green-eyes challenged her. As though daring her to deem him otherwise.

Flustered. The youthful, beauty nodded her head.

“Course you **are** …I did no mean that you were not…” Regretful eyes, turned down.

He headed toward the mattress. Laid down upon the lump-piled fabric. And sighed.

He had known worse. “Come…” He felt shy—disheartened. “I wish…to be held as I sleep. Your arms are enough. I would not force a perversion on you.” Spoken with evident, ire—he witnessed her face drain of color. Head shake.

“I did not **mean** —”

“I do not wish to **speak** on it.” His voice was small. Wounded. “ **Please**.”

With no further ado, she blew out the candlelight, and settled alongside of him.

Her arms wound around his frame. His head nestled to her bosom—and fretfully, Theon descended into nightmarish, sleep.

 

 

* * *

 

**_Sansa_ **

 

Cold in the empty blankets of her own bed. Little Robb tucked safely in his crib.

Sansa too, felt **cold**.

And lonely.

Her heart ached for her husband. She longed for him to know she cared.

But she had searched the castle again—and was unable to seek him out.

With fretful thoughts—she **dwindled** to sleep—To the crackle of the dying embers of the hearth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Now that the monster final part of my Yara/Theon fic is at an end, and the fiction is completed, I am going to be putting all of my energy into this fiction! I am enjoying the writing of it immensely! And I cannot wait to see where my bbys take me next! I may be posting little one-shots and other Theon/Sansa things separate from this main fiction of mine so be on the lookout on my main page! Love you all!_


	26. Part 26; To Depart Reality.

_**Part 26; To Depart Reality.** _

 

* * *

 

> _Life’s not fair;_
> 
> _Why should it be?_

 

* * *

 

 

**_Theon_ **

 

Nightmares overcame the endless darkness that encompassed his general slumber. Ramsay was ever-present.

Cruel. Unpleasant words, abundantly resounded throughout the dungeon. His flesh was on fire—the blade, searing-hot as it scooped flesh from muscle.

Those taunts would remain within the structure of his mind for as long as he lived.

Perhaps even into the seven hells he felt destined to wind up in.

It was cold—firm—touch.

That jolted him into awareness.

“You sure about this Alise?” Drunken male tones soured the air.

“Oh, it is him alright—I recognize him.” Feminine tones blended in with male ones.

Woozily, Theon forced his eyes open. Double figures were all he could make out in the dimly lit quarters. A single candle was lit on the edge of the wooden-table. His head pounded—as though melded with a thousand pummels to it.

He could not recall a time when he was ever this unsteady—perhaps when Ramsay had him up on that saltire.

Hands still kept him held firm to the lumpy mattress. Confounded, tired-fingers sought a way to relieve the pressure on his back. With a low grunt, he gripped at the sheets. Attempted to drag himself forward.

“The little prick is waking up.” He heard a second distinctive male voice.

“It might be wearing off. Though, I gave him enough milk of the poppy to fell a horse.”

Theon’s uncentered mind, recalled the wine. He had not been watching closely when she poured the glasses. She had drugged him? Why?

Slowly, he mulled over the reasons. Did he know her?

The longer he attempted to make out what—exactly—was happening, the harder his head ached.

Pounding with the stupor of dizziness. His stomach felt ill—like a lump was dredged into it.

“What are you…doing…?” Theon strained. Struggled to speak the words.

They came out funny. Sounded uneven—unformed—upon his tongue.

“You Iron-Island filth. You should not have come here.” The voice was near. Most assuredly from the man holding him firmly in place.

Struggling—Theon’s slow mind attempted to process what had been taunted down at him.

They knew who he was.

His skin crawled.

“I…had nowhere…else to…go…” He forced his eyes open. Attempted to focus green-optics on the female. “W-Why did you…hmm…drug me…I p-paid you…”

He could feel his other personalities, hovering near the edge of his mind. They were confused. Scared. He was meant to protect them.

How could he? He could not even protect himself.

“You think one measly coin is enough to repay me for what you took?” Spiteful words spit through the air.

He heard another voice. Also, male. “Shh, Alise we will see that justice is done, hmm? Why do you not go outside? Clear your head?”

It was a strain to keep his eyes open so long. He closed them—and groaned. But listened, nonetheless.

“No. I want to watch. I want to watch this fucking **bastard** bleed!”

Theon’s brain screamed at him—he had to get out of here. But how?

He was so weak. So very weak. And **tired**.

 **So** tired.

If he closed his eyes—maybe he would die quickly.

“Go…ahead…kill me…get it over with…” Resolved to his fate, Theon let the words slur right out.

He was so relaxed from the milk of the poppy. It worked wonders on his ambitions. His cares. His skin felt tingly. The aches and pains—departed. How much had she given him?

Laughter burst throughout the small room. His ears rang—head ached woozily, as the sound amplified in his altered state.

“We are not going to kill you. You fucking **cunt**. But when we are done with you—you will **wish** we did.” The man that still had a sturdy grasp upon his tunic, bent down. He could smell the stale tang of ale on his breath.

Tears stung the rims of his eyes. If they only knew—How often he already prayed for death…

Squeals of terror, befell his lips as he was suddenly jerked back. Tunic torn over his head. Breeches abrasively yanked down bony-hips. Smallclothes next.

The rough-textured hand kept him tight to the mattress, whilst another snaked around. Grazed over his scarred-bits. “I did not believe it until **this** moment. You really have no cock?” The foul-breathed male sneered.

Tears trickled—red color seared throughout his face. Brazenly, displayed his shame. Theon jolted his hips, away from this man’s vile touch.

“If you had one, I would have **cut** it off myself, shame someone already beat me to it.” Theon trembled.

He wanted to fight. But his only weapon was his dagger—and it was in his rucksack. Which was clear across the room.

“P-Please…” He resorted to pleading. “Whatever I have **done** to you…I apologize…just **please** …Let me go…” Howling laughter echoed through the close-quarters of the small room. It was stifling with heat—sweat built on his skin. Perhaps—it was the **tincture**.

“What you **did** , was murder, rape, and reeve through **our** land. You **filth**. You let your men rape as they would. Killed my **brother** —No. You cock-less bastard are **going** to rot. And I will revel in every **second** of your suffering.”

Theon shivered.

“Please…” His voice was small.

He felt so lost. So afraid.

Why did he leave the **warmth** of Winterfell? Why did he **leave** Sansa?

There was no time for more pleading. He was pinned—hard—into the mattress, felt the shift—and panicked.

Scratched. Scraped. Scrabbled. Tried desperately for a foothold on something— **anything** that might help him. But there was **nothing**. Only bedsheets.

Screams tore from his throat as he felt the first jab inside of him—from behind. He tore around the man’s cock—felt hurt jostle right through the pain suppressant, that impaired him. And he pushed into the contents of his mind—and escaped.

Reek was shoved forward. Into consciousness.

Pain ruptured through his form. Images of Ramsay piled on top of him. Held tight to him in the hound pens. Fingers gripped tight to his collar—choking him with it. Reek was in pain.

So much pain.

Blood was seeping down his rear—soaking into the sheets. It hurt—why was he here? Why was this happening again? Where was Sansa? Sansa promised to keep him safe.

Safe…He wanted to be held.

Reek wailed in agony—felt his bladder release. Eyes rolled back—as he reeled with the sting of these rough thrusts—touches. The acidic-stench of urine, seeped into the room.

“Look at that! The bastard’s pissed himself!” Laughter radiated. So loud—why was everything so loud? His mind hurt. He was being ripped in half…Was this how it ended? Was he going to die here?

He wanted to die. Please…let him die.

Did he upset Sansa? Had she sent him away? The last thing he could remember was her warm arms. Their clean skin. Loving—tender—whispers into his ears. That she loved him.

“S-Sansa….” Painful shrieks tore from his throat. He wailed for her. She promised—promised he would never be hurt again. Not like this.

“You crying for your wife, you cock-less whore? She shames herself by being tethered to the likes of you, scum!” Unfamiliar male voices were abundant. How many?

He could not decipher.

There was so much hurt—it went on and on.

He was bloody. Ripped. And he wanted his hound pen.

He wanted to curl up in the hay-strands. Where he felt safe. The only place he was safe.

It was not Ramsay’s voice he deciphered—only foreign, unfamiliar ones.

Had he been a bad servant? He laid with Lady Sansa. Was this punishment because of what he did with her?

He loved her. He swore he did. She was shamed by the likes of him. He was wretched—so wretched.

“I w-will n-not….t-touch….h-her…a-again…p-please…R-Reek w-will be g-good…” Ramsay used to like it when he remembered his name. Promised things. But he forgot how much Ramsay despised that word. Please. Such a simple word—such a mistake…

More cruel laughter.

“Is that a name you go by? Reek? Fitting for a creature that pisses himself.” Vile words stung him deep inside.

Reek sobbed. Fought with all the strength he had. But he harbored so little strength. His muscles felt heavy. Weak.

He laid his head down. And let them take.

He could not fight—Ramsay had always hated it when he fought.

What did he do? No one would tell him what he had done.

It continued—for what felt like hours. Was it days? Years?

He laid—limp—aching. The first man sprayed him with seed. All down his back, shoulders, hair. Another picked up where he left off. Perhaps there was three—four others that came. Took. Spent their seed inside of him—on top of him. He could not tell.

He laid there—in humiliation. In shame.

This was where he belonged. He was the lowest of the low. His other personalities were hiding. From this shame.

He was built for this. Made for it, really.

Sansa had just been a dream. A blissful, beautiful—dream. She could not love him. He remembered how she despised him for what Theon did. The hate in those Stark-eyes. Had she given him to these monsters?

Trickles of tears rolled silently down his cheeks. He made little noises—in his throat—the only proof that he still lived. Breathed. Existed.

He felt fists pound down on his flesh. Beat the tortured surface of rough-skin. He heard their voices. They were far away.

They taunted him. Belittled him. Shamed him.

He wanted to let go. But his body was not near enough to death. He was not dying.

Mercy **never** came.

He would do well to **remember** that.

Mercy did not exist.

Not for Reek. **Never** Reek.

Unresponsive. The men were displeased with him. His noises had ceased—his fight was gone—Why **fight** it?

Covered in blood, urine, seed—now bruises.

What use did pleading do? Fighting? He knew his place—he was reminded of it. The dream was gone—dead—and no one would save him now.

Still—Reek called to her. Little, broken—cracked—words.

“Sansa…” Inaudible. Were they even parting his cracked-lips at all?

He felt ashamed. He nursed at her breast—like a babe—took from her lovely-skin. Now—he was paying for that crime. He was nothing—and he forgot that.

Low cries wrenched from his throat. He felt a knife dig into his skin.

Is this his release? His death?

No.

They carved into his back. He felt his flesh tear. Bleed. But the wound was not deep—not nearly enough to release him.

“Hold him down.”

A voice loud enough to pierce his stupor. Hands rolled him. Boneless—he tumbled upon his back.

Ignored the sting from his ass. Closed his eyes against the backdrop of blurriness. Then—screams tore from his throat.

Flesh, burned—singed—smoked.

His chest was on fire! High-pitched squeals ripped from somewhere inside of him. How he found the strength to even scream—he knew not.

Blissfully—darkness consumed him.

Everything went black.

 

 

* * *

 

 

**_Sansa_ **

 

Dreams of fire. Pain—tears. Haunted her sleep. Sansa could feel the nestle of warm arms around her. The pleas—cries of her name.

“S-Sansa…H-Help…H-Help…P-Please…S-Sansa…” Shivers spiraled up her spine. Radiated right into her core. Reek was clung on for dear life.

He was cold—and scared. Tired. So tired.

She could feel the haze of clouds all around them. Thick like fog. It was difficult to think—to breathe. Everything hurt.

She could feel the hurt.

Like when Ramsey would torture her. Her heart gripped.

“You are safe Reek. I promise. You are safe with me.” Whispers fell. Wind wicked across the surface. Blew snow every which way around them.

“S-Sansa…P-Please…” Still, he pleaded.

She felt her heart wrench for him. Why was he so afraid?

Her skin tingled—goosebumps spread—everywhere.

And then—she jerked into consciousness.

Sick dread lodged in her belly. Theon had not returned. He was not upon the sette in their chambers. Nor alongside her. Where he belonged.

She threw off the furs, reached for her cloak—and rushed out of her chambers. Down the halls—to his.

Still vacant—empty.

Fretfully, she surged to the hound pens. Searched each one—still not there, either.

The sick—pained—feeling would not cease.

She fled to Jon’s chambers. Burst in—unannounced. He jolted awake. Ghost’s head popped up.

His wife sleepily shifted in bed—undisturbed by the intrusion.

By now, thick tears were pouring down Sansa’s cheeks. She had to find Theon. She **had** to.

Across the room, she drew up onto the bed, flung herself into Jon’s arms. Buried her face into his neck. She craved his strength, right now.

Needed it.

“Sansa…What has happened?” Fingers wound into scarlet-tresses.

“I cannot find, Theon!” No attempt to quiet her vocals was made.

Silken-fur nudged her thigh. Ghost’s nose pressed sound against her. Worried expressions lit his eyes.

“I am certain he is nearby, probably in the pens. Have you had a row again?” Even tones resounded.

“We had a row…Yesterday…I thought he was avoiding me, but…He is not here. I cannot find him, anywhere! And I…I heard him in my dreams. He was calling out for me. He was scared—everything was…blurry…hazy…Jon, please! You have to find him…Now! Right now! He is hurt—I know it…” Frantically—she recollected the vicious pain inflicted. She still felt it—even in her waking state.

“It is not even dawn yet, are you certain he has not just wandered off for a bit of air? Maybe took a walk? You have probably just had a night terror…Would it make you feel better to sleep here?”

“Listen! To! Me—!” She heavily, enunciated each word.  “—This was not just a fucking dream! He is going to die! You have to do something! Send our **men** out to look for him! Send Ghost! **DO SOMETHING**!” Undeterred—she grasped his nightgown. Shook him with the bulk of her strength. She cared not if she woke his pregnant—sleeping—wife. Nor If she had to kill him in order to get him to listen to her. It was a rarity when she swore—but she wanted his attention—and by the Gods—she would fucking get it.

Wide, gaping-eyes found hers. Sansa had never been so frantic—so unsettled. In her life.

“If you feel that strongly—”

“I do! There is no more time to waste! Go now! Or so help me! I will never forgive you!” Clearly agitated, Jon emerged from underneath the warmth of his bed-furs, Ghost on his heels.

Tully-blue eyes observed—unseeingly—as Jon tugged on his attire. Her fingers were clenched into balled fists. The more time wasted—the worse she felt.

Sinking—repulsion, remained—lodged in her belly. Turning with unease.

“I will gather a few of our knights. Send them to the outlying villages. I swear to the Gods, if he is sleeping—or walking somewhere, you shall be the one that explains why I woke them for this.”

She would readily take blame for her own wrongness—were she wrong. But the sick feeling was lodged inside of her—and it refused to dwindle.

She was **not** wrong.

She could **not** be.

 

* * *

 

**_Reek_ **

 

Boneless—Reek felt saturation on his belly.

Heat—warmth of a room. He groaned.

Then arms. Around him. Laughter—so much laughter.

Carried—pain seared throughout his form. Everything hurt.

Everywhere.

Then—frigid cold.

Dropped to the Earth—He shivered. Naked. Freezing—Unconsciousness claimed him again.

This time—He prayed it was for good.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Oooops...._


	27. Part 27; To Overcome and Endure.

**_Part 27; To Overcome and Endure._ **

* * *

 

> _When you pass through the_
> 
> _waters, I will be with you._

* * *

 

 

**_Reek_ **

 

Flesh shivered. Blue-tinged lips parted. Drool escaped. Cold wisps of air fell from his pitiful form.

This is death.

He could not feel the cold.

Not anymore.

He could not feel pain—only light.

Light…

Then—warmth.

Arms. He was tired. Still so tired.

And if they were going to kill him—might he first know a bit of warmth?

He nuzzled into the arms that held him.

Sought to leech the heat from their bones.

Blurriness hazed his vision—eyes would not focus.

Unperturbed with whom might give him the final blow towards death—Reek descended back into blackness.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

**_Sansa_ **

 

Gut-wrenching—sears of pain refused to subside. Blue-optics fretfully gazed into flickering-flames. The more she attempted to recall—the worse the pain became.

Still, barely sounded pleas continued to rattle her to her core.

Those cries—were so delicate.

Frightened.

She could still see those bulged, tearful eyes. Like a child—calling for his mother.

It rocked her to her core. Deep—within her soul.

Clutched. Tight to Little Robb, Sansa had fed him—to calm herself.

Was that an hour ago? Two?

She could not recollect that either—but holding this wrapped bundle. Safe. Sound. In her arms, made her feel better, somehow. Lighter.

He was the only thing that helped.

Even sound asleep, with little lung-fulls of air sucked in. He was still so agreeable. Perfect.

Finally, after so long—She decided it was time to return him to his crib.

Like a ghost—she departed from within her chambers. Returned Little Robb to the nursery.

Tucked safe-within his crib, Sansa drew her robe tight around her middle. Wiped, woeful-tears from tired-eyes.

They fell, unabated. Constant. Since first she woke.

Worry, did not begin to cast a light upon how she felt.

Suddenly, commotion was prominent in the hall. Realizing—she was stood, still, like a statue in the hallway, gave Sansa pause.

She had meant to retreat, back to her chambers.

So why had she not?

Instead, she followed the ruckus. All the way out, into the courtyard.

Both hands shot straight to her mouth. Skin crawled. Theon was encompassed in a cloak, face swollen-past recognition. Hung-limp in Jon’s arms.

Was he dead?!

Her first thought was that he could not possibly be alive.

No creature could survive such brutality.

Then, his head twitched—bobbed—before it fell back against Jon’s chest.

Chills shuttered up her spine—Horror.

She shoved through the ever-expanding crowd of onlookers, forced them aside, until she could reach Theon.

“W-What h-happened to—” Sansa cut herself off; reached for his face—then decided against touching his swollen, painful-looking, features—Had to staunch back bile. “—Where did you find him?”

Jon’s eyes were unreadable. Stoic nearly. Perhaps detached.

“Snowbank. Next to a brothel.” His words were clipped. Concise.

“Who **did** this to him?” Stood out in the frigid cold—she did not **think**.

“As far as I can tell, **that** lot.” He motioned with his head, to a band of prisoners. Hands bound. Winterfell soldiers on either side, guided them onward. Bulky men—twice Theon’s size.

“W-Why?” Her stomach clenched.

“I know not, why men commit vile, unspeakable acts. I did not presume to ask them why. But we need to get **him** inside—before he **freezes** to death.” As though he heard them—Theon shuddered. Nestling deeper into Jon’s arms. Though made no sound to indicate, cognizance.

With a sob, Sansa nodded. Followed, quick alongside of Jon. Neither of them halted again, until Theon was safe, in the sanctuary of their bedchamber.

Jon stood—awkwardly. Holding Theon in his embrace.

“I do not think we should put him on the bed…His odor is quite repugnant.”

Sansa spun on him. “Put him on the bed. He needs comfort right now. Nothing less, will do.” Furiously, she drew back to the covers, and motioned for Jon to situate him.

With a sigh of discontentment, Jon complied. Unceremoniously lying him upon the bedsheets.

“Now, leave us in peace. Go handle the men that did this to him.” Emboldened by her sudden hatred for the wretched filth that hurt, Theon—Sansa had no patience for Jon.

“I warn you, Sansa…His appearance does not bode well, under that cloak. Are you certain you wish to contend with him on your own…I could have the servants—”

“He is my husband! I will tend to him on my own. He will want no one else to touch him. Now, go!” She snapped. Her eyes overfilled with tears; she did not want to spill in front of Jon.

Jon left—without further complaint.

Left alone, a hollow echo resounded off the walls. To know that she had felt his pain—was enough to tell her just how atrocious it had been. His terror had been so resolute—he had **cried** for her.

And she **heard** him.

 **Felt** him.

Thickly, Sansa swallowed.

“I am here now…You are going to be okay…” Sansa recognized patches of sandy-curls had been cut, crudely from Theon’s head. Large chunks, hacked out. Whilst other bits were untouched. As though they cut his hair with the intent to humiliate. Her fingers dragged, mournfully, through his remaining curls. A few more tears slid down her cheeks.

Black and blue bruises littered his cheeks. Forehead. Nose—Everywhere.

Not an inch of his face was untouched by maim.

Finally—resolutely—Sansa peeled back Jon’s cloak. Swallowing down her bile as she saw what had been done to him.

Dried semen coated his skin, some even matted his hair. So much of it—The stench of urine was everywhere—Realization came that was not just his own accident that he reeked of. Had they pissed on him?

His skin was frigid cold to the touch—blue in tint. He shivered with the exposure. “Shh…I know, Sweetheart. I know. I need to see what damage has been done…” Blindly—Theon was reaching out for her. Coarse-fingers attached to her wrist.

His breaths were uneven.

“S-S-S-San-s-sa…” Cold. Shuddering sounds emerged. She understood.

Bleary—tear-wet eyes sought her out. Though she doubted he could actually see her.

In that moment—she decided she did not care if he reeked of filth—and other men’s seed, and piss. He was like ice.

So cold.

Shivering.

As a youth her father taught her basic survival. Skin to skin was the quickest way to warm a freezing body. Nimble-fingers undid the fastenings of her robe. Let it cascade to the rug. Quickly, she unlaced the ties of her nightgown—drew that over her head. And climbed underneath the furs. Pressed the bareness of her form—tight to his. Like a frightened puppy, Theon inched close. Instinctively latched hold of her—and shuddered. Sansa drew up the furs—and cuddled him.

She could survey for damage later. He would die from cold, before his wounds.

Despite the smell, she comforted him as best she could. Ran soothing—soft fingers all along his muscles. Kneaded his skin with loving coos, against his remaining-curls.

Let their tears mingle, together.

She felt so tired. Just like he was.

And without thought—she fell to sleep in his arms.

 

* * *

 

 

**_Reek_ **

 

Wrapped in warmth—Reek faded in and out of consciousness.

Blackness would come—and then fade.

Was it day? Or night?

His mind was boggled. Skin afire.

The haziness was fading; but still encompassing enough.

Once warmth—transferred into cold—chill.

Teeth-chattered. Skin screamed for heat. He felt impossibly cold.

Scarlet hair waved in front of him. So near. Was it?

Sansa? He struggled to speak her name—was not even sure he had.

Then boiling heat encompassed him. Held him—stroked him. He liked the feeling. It was good.

After so much hell. So much pain…Was he forgiven? Was this what forgiveness felt like?

He sank into the heat. The gentility—after so much agony. There was kindness—mercy.

Was this **death**?

He plunged into darkness before he could find out.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Repulsive odor was the first clear, concise thought that came to mind. Now that his thoughts were again, working—he tested another piece of his form.

His muscles.

He lifted his right arm—It moved. Without the heavy-weight of resistance. His pain level was the only thing holding him back.

The punishment fit the crime. He gave in to Sansa—loved her—and was punished. Dearly.

He could think of no other reason he was forced to undergo, such cruelty. What had he done to those men?

His mind could not weave out the details. It was all so fuzzy.

Then—realization overcame all else. Warm, snug arms were around him. A naked—full bodice.

Sansa—!!

Reek jerked clear of her hold.

In doing so, he felt it—truly felt—the pain. His own suffering.

And wrenched cries broke free from his throat. It hurt.

Everything hurt.

Ribs. Back. Front. Head. Face.

Everything.

Stickiness coated him. Male-seed, and the potent stench of urine….

“Theon? It is okay—You are safe now…Safe…”

Reek heard sleepy words befall his Lady’s lips. He was **not** safe.

Not so long as he was **here** —what if those men returned? What if— **Why** had she **let** them hurt him?

“W-Why d-did you l-leave m-me?” Hurt words parted from his sore lips—It hurt him to speak.

“Reek?” Disbelieving tones dispersed from pink-tinged petals. Sudden horror written into her eyes. “I-Is that you, in there?”

He recalled the tug—the yank as his other personalities hid, whilst he was mutilated. And **hurt**.

They **never** cared for him.

 **Never**.

“Y-Yes, M-My L-Lady…” He squirmed. Halted—when pain was felt.

She was on her knees, hovering above him in an instant. Thumbs brushed his cheeks with calming-tender swipes. Reek made a little noise in his throat. He was **frightened**.

Why had he been forced to endure so much **hurt**?

“Where are the others? Where is Theon?” She pried.

Trembling. Reek poked around in his mind. Prodded. Searched. The others were **deep** in hiding—He could not find them—Could not push them into the open.

“I d-d-do not know M-My L-Lady… I could n-not move…they h-hurt me…Why d-did they h-hurt me?” Reek pressed.

He needed to know.

“I know not, Jon found you. Near a brothel in the village. What were you doing in a brothel, Reek? Do you **remember**?”

Her lips were so near to the corner of his mouth. He could feel her hot breath. See the worried appearance in her blue-optics. She was frightened for him. Genuinely. He could feel her hands tremble.

“N-No…I…I woke u-up and t-they were h-hurting me…T-Theon m-made me c-come out…”

A pained expression crossed her face.

“Why did you not fight back, Reek? Your body is strong now—You are not malnourished anymore. You should have been able to fight back…” Tortured words fell from her lips. Her thumbs brushed tears from his splotchy-cheeks as they fell.

His head shook, “I-I tried…I c-could not move r-right…Everything w-was fuzzy. T-The pain w-was lesser…” He strained to remember—latched his mind onto memories. Prodded. Poked. Theon was gripping **tight** to his memories. **Not** releasing them.

Not allotting him access.

Still, he deserved to **know** what he was tortured for. What he did **wrong**.

Brief glimpses of images scattered. But did not connect. Not **properly**.

Strawberry kisses—warm arms that were not Sansa’s—and then fuzziness. Wine.

 It was **in** the wine.

“M-Milk of the P-Poppy…was in the w-wine…” The memory of taunting—jeers—and then blackness came forth.

“They drugged you?” Sansa’s voice was nary a whisper.

He nodded.

“T-Theon w-will not l-let me see a-all of it…H-He brought u-us there…Theon d-did this…” Reek felt tears. Repulsive twists in his stomach.

Had he not been **tortured** enough? At Ramsay’s hand? Was it not enough he endured humiliation—and rape consistently with Ramsay…but now, when Theon found himself in a web of his own twining— **He** was brought forth to stand the brunt of it?

Anger boiled in his belly. Skin felt crawly. He wished it were not his skin. That he was not attached to it. He wanted to be set free.

“L-Lady S-Sansa…?”

Her soft, doting fingers brushed his forehead.

“Hm?”

“I w-want to die…I n-never want to f-feel this a-again…”

And he did. He willed his form to die.

It would have been so much kinder. Better. Nothing here was pleasant for him.

His other personalities **tortured** him. Only permitted him access to their body when **they** wanted no part in what **became** of it.

Even their so-named ‘protector’, did not **protect** them.

Sansa burst into sobs. “No, Baby…You do **not** mean that…”

“I d-do…I am t-tainted. F-Filthy…I t-tire of b-being filthy…” Dull-eyes set on hers.

“Come here…” Warm arms wound around him. He faded into her touch. She was soft—pleasant. Loving. “No one will **ever** hurt you again.”

Haunting tones of the last time she spoke such promising words came to mind. He had believed her then. Let his **trust** in her build.

“You s-said t-that **before** …” And she had.

“I know. I know I did…” Hot breaths met his skin. “Stay close to me, Reek. I promise, this time, I will be better.”

His skin prickled with fear—but he nodded. Clung to her. Determinedly. He would **never** leave Sansa— **never** again. Even the thought of setting foot outside of Winterfell brought him anxiety. Fear. He was **never** going to leave— **never** again.

 

 

 

* * *

 

**_Sansa_ **

 

Disbelief dominated her thoughts.

She believed that Theon would be the dominant personality. Out—having endured the unthinkable to protect poor, child-like Reek from more hurt.

Not cowering away, somewhere far. Out of view.

What had Theon done to make those men so vengeful? This was vengeance—surely.

Not random.

Targeted.

Reek was in pieces alongside of her. Trembling with fear.

Completely, devastated.

And it broke her heart to hear him plead for it all to be at an end. The pain he must be in…She remembered the hurt that tore through her frame, even when she awoke.

Even now—she could still feel those dreadful aches she dreamt of.

“Reek…I need to see what they have done, Sweetheart. Can you let me see? Hm? I know you are in pain, but I need to tend you…”

Tired-eyes turned wide. Horrified. Reek scooted away—then howled as though he forgot how agonized his form was, when he moved.

“Shh…Do not get upset, please Reek…It will only hurt more if you panic…”

Tears rimmed her eyes. How was she ever going to get him cleaned now? He was so afraid. So ashamed.

She could see the shame built into his reaction.

“P-P-Please, My L-Lady…I d-do not w-want you to s-see…” Sniffles emerged. His nose was congested. His form hidden from view, underneath silken, bear-furs.

She needed him to focus on something else—something good.

So, she inched toward him. Drew his face into her hands, with feather-light touches. Then, kissed his lips. Soft. Barely grazed them.

“You are my husband, Reek. I love you. Nothing they have done will change how I feel for you. I will have the servants run you a hot bath. And I will bathe you, Reek. We will make you clean again—and this time, you will stay clean. I promise. You just have to trust me, just once more. Can you do that for me, Reek? Can you forgive me? And let me help you?” In her heart of hearts—she knew the damage inflicted upon Reek was permanent—quite a bit of what she had seen under these blankets—was permanent. But she would fix what could be fixed.

The patches of curly-hair would re-grow. His skin would no longer be itchy from urine. He would feel clean—She hoped.

He noticeably loosened in her hands. She felt his jaw go lax—eyes return to their natural width.

Pulse slowed.

“You can even suckle from me, Reek. Would you like that? A bit of milk?” Based off the lacerations, and scattered bruises all about his face—she knew his teeth were in even worse shape than before. His gums must ache.

With tearful eyes—Theon nodded.

Blushed scarlet at the mention of breastfeeding. But made no move to decline.

She would give him the world, if it were needed. She had a wet-nurse for Little Robb, that fed him when she could not. She would have her sent for.

She decided to check his mouth first. With loving-fingers she coaxed his jaw open. It went lax. There were jagged-pieces of tooth all throughout his mouth. His front teeth were cracked. His lower ones, shattered. Bleed-heavy at the gums. Blood was oozing all throughout his mouth. It made her stomach turn. But she refused to let him see how much this hurt her to witness.

Instead, she lowered her hands—permitted his mouth to draw closed.

Without words, careful-fingers began to wander. Checked over his curls to see that his scalp was unharmed—and it was. Though some patches had been hacked near the scalp—the jagged knife did not pierce skin.

Satisfied, (as best as she could be) that his head was in no immediate danger—She heedfully drew down the furs. With bated breath—Sansa observed his chest. Saw the old scars from Ramsey. Missing nipple, countless raised-scars. Old.

And then—her eyes widened. Near his lower-abdomen there were various marks, seared into weathered-skin. If she had to guess—they used a fire-poker heated to sweltering temperatures on him.

Her attempt to keep his face stoic—and unreadable—failed. Marks bore along his hipbone, right down to his thigh. And his pelvis. Just above where his scarred-bits were. Above that were letters—carved into his skin. With the blade of a knife. The words ‘cock less bitch’ were carved. Deep.

Reek would not look at her. Green-eyes were turned aside. Jaw firmly set.

She saw tears tracking down either cheek.

These horrendous monsters would pay. She would hang them herself for what they did.

Sansa recognized blood spatters, between his thighs. Stained in pale-skin. “T-Turn over for me…” Barely able to suppress the emotion from her words—She managed.

He turned. Landed on his stomach—made a low whine of hurt.

She could not suppress the vomit—not this time. She tried—Gods knew—she did.

Bent over she barely made it to the chamber pot, before she was sick into the bowl. The bits of food she ate whilst she worried for Theon all came up. Her stomach effectively emptied.

She wiped her mouth on her discarded nightgown, a few feet away. Gathered her wits—and returned. Forced herself to see.

Dried blood soaked his entire rear-end. Caked him. Not a patch of him was unsullied. His round-cheeks were bruised with handprints. Red-streaks from the hot poker donned each of his rear-cheeks. And horrifically, seared his crack, down to his puckered hole. She forced herself to look. To assess the damage. He was burned—badly. The Maester would need to check on him.

And just up—beneath his shoulder blades. Carved—deep—into skin, were the words ‘Reek’ and ‘Iron cunt.’

How could she fix him?

She lowered down upon the bedlinens—and held him dear. “Oh, Sweet Boy, what have they done to you?” Nudging near to her—Reek clutched her tight. Buried his face in her neck—and sobbed.

Trembled in her arms.

And she held him. Until she could make herself cease to shake.

Enough to give him a kiss of reassurance—in order to order the servants, to run a bath.

 

 

* * *

 

 

**_Reek_ **

 

She saw everything.

His shame. Horror. Abuse.

Those tender-sweet hands sought every curve—every crevice of his skin. Touched with gentility—everywhere.

After so much hurt—he only longed for the warmth of light touches.

Sansa was the light.

He heard her vomit—heard as she sobbed her heart out at the mere **sight** of him.

The light faded. She was **repulsed** by his appearance. As she **should** be.

He was **repulsive**. The epitome of horror—Of disgust.

Still, she gathered him in her arms. Let him leech off of her heat. Take her soft, loving touches—and sigh into them.

He yearned, deep in the pit of his belly to be cleansed of the filth that coated him.

He nearly dozed in her arms as the bath was made— **nearly**.

When she moved away—he sought her warmth. Realizing she had climbed from underneath the covers.

“Can you stand?” She cooed.

Reek had not tried to get up—not since he first awoke.

He nodded however—determined to make it to the steaming heat that poured from the bathing tub.

It would **satiate** his hurting form.

It had last time.

Once upon his feet—he ignored the burn of raw-muscles. Blemished-skin.

He made his way toward the tub—Sansa’s arms held him upright.

With ease—he sank underneath the waters. Let the pain from his muscles relinquish. Ignored the increasingly-painful sting of his ass.

And sighed.

Gave in to the sense of calm that overshadowed, being submerged beneath watery-depths.

Needful moans, resounded as his muscles loosened.

Dainty-thumbs worked into the crevices of his shoulder-muscles, as she offered him a tender-massage.

“Just relax, okay? I have you.”

Reek’s eyes drifted to a close. Skin rippled with suppressed-need.

Heat pooled in his belly. Sansa gripped tight to a sponge, lathered it with heated-water—and scented oils—she dragged it over his soiled skin.

Almost animal noises emerged from raw-vocals.

His voice was hoarse from Screams. Pleas—Sounds of suffering.

Carefully, Reek eased right into the motion of her hand. Let her guide across his skin. Rinse. Lather. Repeat.

Until he was thoroughly done-over.

His fear curbed. Anxiety dwindled.

He was fading—falling into Sansa’s fiery-touch.

“Do you trust me, Reek?” Images scoured his mind. Flashes. Last time she asked him this question—He felt the same sense of peace.

With hesitance—He nodded.

“Open your legs for me.” Reek shuddered. Remembered Ramsay’s strong—rough, voice ask the same of him. Then **take—** brutally, from between them.

Fretfully—He complied.

Eyes clenched shut—He would **not** look. Would not see, what those cruel men did down **there**. How they **hurt** him.

He felt her scrub, light, even-rubs. Along each thigh.

And she cooed to him, the whole time. Her words made him feel loved. **Good**. Melty inside.

“You are doing **so** good, Reek. So **good**.” Her words shot tingles through his spine. He found her neckline, sought comfort in the pulse of her carotid-vein.

Her free arm came up, wound around his chest. Touched light, little strokes to his stubble-laden cheek.

He whined, low in his throat.

“Lean back for me.”

He did.

Let the water submerge his head. Held his breath. Water was a weakness for Reek. It reminded him of Theon’s memories. The Iron-Islands. Of salt-blood. And home.

 **Another** home.

From a long time, past.

When she pulled him back up—He sputtered. Coughed. How **long** had he stayed under?

He had **memories** of holding his breath for a long time. He was a good swimmer—or **Theon** was.

“Reek, are you okay?” Worried tones invaded his thoughts.

He gave a little nod. He was fine. Tired—but fine.

“I like the w-water.” He admitted. For some reason, he was mildly embarrassed to admit to it, out loud.

“Course you do. The sea’s krakens are in your blood. Just as wolves are in mine. You must miss the sea, Reek. Your home.” Her tone, saddened. He heard the sorrow there.

Home was wherever Sansa told him it was.

And wherever she laid her head—he wanted to be there with her. In this life—that one thing he decided—when he thought back to the memory of Theon’s marriage to her. The love she gave to him. Sheer joy. It settled over his heart—made him light as a feather. Even now—when so much turbulence—scorched underneath his skin.

“W-Winterfell is my h-home. The s-sea is not my h-home.” He decided.

He felt her jaw pull into a smile.

“You are my home, too, Reek.” She always seemed to understand what he meant—even if he did not speak the words.

Contented, Reek nudged her with his nose, in quiet companionship.

Discomfort shrouded him, as his achy skin throbbed with sudden disagreement. The water was cooler—from time past.

He made a low whimper.

“I know—everything must hurt.” She cooed. Loving-fingers grazed up his chest—then down. Underneath the water’s surface. “Do you want me to make it better? Hm?” Low, barely audible whispers tickled his ear.

Pink-petals were inches away. Shivers chilled his spine. He flushed—nuzzled deep into her neck-crevice. Embarrassed to admit to his pain level—Reek held his position. Stirred. Ached.

“Is that a yes, Sweet Boy?” His insides turned squirrely when she spoke to him with that low-sultry tone. He melted—And **needed**.

Her hand traveled—rested—just over his twisted, scarred-stub. Brushed light trails over his pelvis. His thighs were drawn together. He squeezed them.

Ignored the sharp-pain when he shifted.

“Open your legs for me.” The second-time this evening she asked it of him. He did trust her. More than anyone.

He complied.

Spread them wide—granted her access.

“Focus on me. Just me—Nothing else.” Sweet-alluring words, intoxicated his mind. Inhibitions vanquished as tender-fingers met with his stub. Instant-gratification caused him to shudder.

He whined.

Suckled at her neck, out of instinct. Mewled with lust.

Hips began to rut up—right into circling-fingers. Carefully, she proceeded to rub him. Make him need—want—wantonly.

Drool leaked from his mouth—upon her neck.

“Here…Shh…That feel good? Hm?” Mothering tones called to him. Her fingers reached into hair-curls, and lowered his head. Soon, his lips met the pink-swell of her nipple. And he took her sweet-milk, deep down his throat. Into his belly.

He gave into his basest instincts—and rutted into her fingers. Moaned in loud, needy whines. Suckled from her with abandon—and such need.

His eyes-crossed, skin flared with heat.

“There you go, Reek. Take your fill.” She coaxed into his ear. Which only heightened his sexual appetite.

Time melted—his mind drifted—and he felt the explosion in his lower-half. Lips dribbled with milk. Both teats depleted—and his belly full—swollen. Her hand came to a slow stop against his swollen-need.

“I l-love you, Lady S-Sansa…” He hummed.

“I love you, too, Reek.” His eyes were heavy.

Drooping. Depleted of strength he found himself drifting in the warm bathwater. Bliss—overriding the pain—at least for a few moments.

Enough to fade into oblivion.


	28. Part 28; To Row Among Wolves.

**_Part 28; To Row Among Wolves._ **

* * *

 

> _What broke us_
> 
> _Does not define us._

 

* * *

 

 

**_Sansa_ **

 

Soon after Reek fell to sleep in the cooling waters of the bathing tub, Sansa tugged a robe around herself. Headed out into the hall, in order to instruct the servants to prepare clean, bedding for them to sleep upon.

Before she headed off, to Jon’s chambers.

She had urgent need to speak with him. Especially, with regard to everything she heard from Reek’s own lips.

Foremost, she had need to seek out the Maester—but decided it could wait.

Jon was who she yearned to speak with, most.

Settled, in his chambers. Tired-eyes found purchase in the fire-flames. Subtle flicks of his wrist were made against Ghost’s mane. Once more, Sansa entered without announcement. Eyeing the room, she found it vacant—aside from Jon himself.

“Where is Alysia?” Exhausted-vocals rang out.

Jon did not, so much as start.

“She is out in the courtyard I expect. She prefers time to clear her head, each evening.” Dismissively, dark-eyes still firmly trained on flickering-flames.

Her hand lifted, absently wiping away any remaining trace of tears, from either cheek.

“How did you find, Theon?” Her skin crawled—but she had need to know. Everything.

Bloodshot, eyes landed on hers. From his worse-for-wear, appearance, Sansa could tell that he was not well. His mind was troubled—addled.

“Ghost tracked his scent.” His direwolf lifted his shaggy-head. Whining sounds emerged from his rear-throat.

“And how do you know the men you found were responsible for what happened?” Heart-pounding in her throat—Sansa forced herself to ask the questions.

“Why have you come here, Sansa? Should you not be with your husband?” Avoidant words warred against her. Those same weathered-eyes pleaded with hers to let it alone.

She refused.

“He fell asleep, and I have need of you to move him to the bed, once our sheets have been stripped. But you have avoided the question, Brother.” Levelly, her eyes bore within his.

Obstinately, challenging him.

“Because I found them. Stood over him, taunting him. Taking a piss on him. Does that suffice?”

Her stomach turned.

“Far from it. How do you know that they are the ones that put him there? Might they have merely come along to add to his misery?” Horrific words befell her lips—but she had to take advantage of every potential scenario.

Jon’s eyes darkened. “Theon is not exactly popular in the North, after his rebellion against us, Sister. But I am certain they are indeed the men that put him there.”

“How do you know?”

“Seven hells! I know because they admitted it! They spoke freely of the vile, disgusting things they did to that man! Do you want to hear, all of it, Sister?! They spoke in great detail!” Temperament wavering on disbelief, Jon continued, despite her momentary lapse of stunned, silence. “A young whore sought him out in the brothel, and he paid her coin for a night. She recognized him—drugged him—and brought the men up to view him. They raped him. Burned him. Sliced at him. Cut him. Pissed on him. What more do you want me to tell you? What more do you need know than that? Your husband betrayed you! Paid for a night with a whore! I must admit, I know not what a cock-less man would seek in a brothel—but he did seek.” Curbed—harsh words, departed Jon’s lips.

Tears came to Sansa’s eyes. Theon sought out a brothel? Intentionally? Reek was unable to view all of the memories that pertained to the attack—and before. Was this why?

Theon betrayed their marital bond?

Sansa swallowed.

“Whatever Theon did, or did not do in a brothel, does not mean he deserved to be raped, Brother. Nor have any other atrocities rained down upon him!” Harshly she bit back the true words she yearned to speak. “Do you know where they burned him, Brother? Do you care?” Icy-tones surged through the air. Hung between them. “They used a fire poker, I suspect, and seared him right on his ass! His thighs! His chest! Can you imagine the pain he must be in? Can you imagine how much it hurt him to take such abuse?!”

Without words, Jon reached for his cup—settled on the table before him—downed a mouthful of the bitter liquid. Before he even deemed himself able to respond.

Finally, he spoke. “No. I cannot imagine.”

“Nor can I, but he has survived it. Lived it. And do you know what’s more? Reek is the personality that survived this, horror. Theon’s true personality fled the moment the rape began.”

Jon drew his eyebrows together. “Reek? You mean…Theon has other personalities?”

Had she never shared this information with him? She thought on it.

“Of course, he does. Ramsay made certain of it.”

Jon shuddered.

“Reek was just a name that Ramsay gave to him, was it not?”

“A name that he tortured him until he took, you mean, Brother.” Fiery-eyes scoured his.

“Gods, why did you insist upon marrying him, Sister? I warned you that the Lords would not take kindly. Apparently, even the villagers are displeased.”

She rubbed her forehead. Pinched the bridge of her nose.

“I love him, Jon. I will love him until the day I die. And you will never understand. Just as you could not understand why I need to feel a warm, body alongside of me to feel safe.”

His cheeks pinked. In remembrance of their shared nights pressed near to one another in warmth—and nudity.

“No, I do **not** understand why you have need of a naked male alongside of you. Other than the fact that our brother, corrupted you.”

“Robb did not **corrupt** me! He was there for me, when I needed him! Always!” Sansa would defend Robb. Images of him scattered through her mind. How she missed him.

“You named your child **after** him! Your relationship was unhealthy! Obscene—Damaged! And your relationship with Theon is more of the same! You rut with him in the pens—upon the grounds—that you rut with him at **all** , is unnatural!”

Disbelief, shadowed blue-optics. Did he presume to call her unnatural? The needs of her husband—her own bodice—were unusual, but how could he judge? They were in love with one another. Wholly. Their affections knew no bounds—and it was never that way with Robb. Robb had been sweet—kind, loving. But also, her eldest brother. Her heart, and soul was not corrupted by him. Only strengthened by his teachings.

“H-How **dare** you! I loved Robb! Naturally. I loved him as a sister does her brother! As I love you, Jon. There was nothing more…He never touched me…Never kissed me as a man does his lover. He only held me. Comforted me. I named my son after Robb, because he resembles him. Not because I was in love with him! As for Theon, he finds pleasure differently than unmutilated men, but he is not unnatural, for it. He loves me. Why should our urges be seen as unnatural?”

“Because they **are**!” Rough-tones soured the air. She began to believe it was the copious amounts of ale that he drank, that made him this way.

“I believe you are unwell, Brother. You have drunk far too much. I will expect an apology in the morrow.” Tully-eyes narrowed. Fiercely.

“You have not **seen** the things I have seen, Sister. Until you have, you cannot attest to what I say, and **what** the cause is.”

Eyebrow quirked. Skin flustered—Sansa straightened her back. “Fine. Theon is my husband, and I will rut with him however I please. If that offends you, then I really do not give a fuck.” Harsh tones bit back at him. Stood, still a few paces from where Jon sat, she permitted her risen-blood to even out.

“You shame yourself. And your name.” Raspy words came out.

“I **refuse** to believe that, Brother. Father would wish for my **happiness**. And Theon provides me with that happiness. And no matter **what** he has done, I will never cease to love him. And after what he has gone through, I never wish to hear you speak about him this way, again!”

Silence pierced the chamber. Finally, he stood. Hovering near her.

“I **apologize** , Sister. I should not have been so blunt.” Tones wavered. Thumbs grazed her cheeks.

Vaguely, she wondered just how sincere he might be. But decided against further challenges, tonight.

“I apologize as well; I should **not** have publicly rutted with my husband.” Little sighs escaped, as she gathered Jon into her arms. “But I meant what I said about Robb. It was **never** unnatural.”

Jon only nodded.

“Come, I will move your husband to his bed. And tomorrow we shall deal with those that put him in his tragic state.” Reassuring tones came, and Sansa nodded her agreement.

Without further ado, she followed him out of his chambers. Back to her own.

Reek remained slumped in the confines of their bathing tub. Unconscious.

Jon hoisted him into his arms.

Whilst Sansa’s tender-hands worked to dry his skin, before Jon planted him upon the silky-sheets of their bedlinens.

Once alone, Sansa stripped from her nightgown, and found purchase alongside her husband’s slumbering form. A comforting arm coiled around his waist—as she too, found sleep.


	29. Part 29; To Fall into Past Truths.

**_Part 29; To Fall into Past Truths._ **

* * *

 

> _The more it hurt,_
> 
> _The more it taught._

* * *

 

**_Reek_ **

_Haziness crippled—haunted—impure dreams._

_Tainted-fingers grasped upon trembling, seared-flesh. Screams ripped from hoarse-vocals—horror ensued._

_Everything came full circle in the darkness. Unimaginable pain surfaced. Tore._

_Crimson-blood coated him. Surged out of him._

_Poured. Stained. He heard taunts—cruel, unkind words. Thoughtless._

_Wetness splashed—spilled over him. From him._

_Insurmountable agony; prevailed._

 

* * *

 

 

Finally, fretful-eyes shot open. Cries ripped from his already hoarse, vocals.

Realization that his bladder had spilled in his dreams—came far **later**.

“Shh, Reek..I am here. You are safe. **Safe**.” Whispered coos were made into his ear-shell. Fingers traveled along his back. Through sandy-curls. Anywhere—everywhere.

“I-I felt t-them…They were h-hurting me…”

“No one will hurt you again, I promise. It was just a night terror.”

Ripples of shame flooded his belly—when the realization, finally hit. They were naked—both of them. Bare. Warm skin—pressed upon his.

They were **both** drenched.

Green-optics lowered, refused to meet hers.

“Do not think on it, come on, let us wash down with a rag, Hm? We will be clean, again…It was merely an accident.” Reassuring tones came forth. Yet—all he could think on, was his own inability to train himself.

Ramsay ruined him—made him a hound. A bitch.

He was damaged.

Despite his bath, the night prior, his pain level was still intolerable. The same as when Ramsay—

He could not **think** on it.

That single-most cruel act, was why he became incontinent in the **first** place. After Sansa went to such trouble—to think she asked servants to run him a bath—! And he was unable to uphold her expectations (that he would stay clean) for more than a couple hours.

Reek was so **ashamed**.

Traumatized-eyes paired with ocean-blues. Skin crawled over his shoulders—down his back. Everywhere.

He twitched. Remembered how Ramsay would taunt him for his hound-like behavior. How was Sansa so kind? **Why** was she so kind to him? It was **underserved**. Creatures like him deserved no kindness.

“Can you stand?”

Torn from hollow thoughts, Reek’s eyes sparkled with tears. He did not desire to move. Filth. Agony. This was where he **belonged**. Right here—cleanliness was not a piece of who he was.

Silently, his head shook. He nestled back down—into the unclean bedding. Curled into a balled-up bundle—and hid his face in his arms.

 **No**. He would **not** move.

His mind longed to be elsewhere, but his other personalities would not emerge. Despite how he **prodded** them—pleaded with them—neither of them would come forth to take his place.

_‘You belong in filth, Reek. Look at you. You like it down in that filthy straw…’_

Remnants of Ramsay’s voice made clear resonance, within fractured-barriers of his mind.

 Where he **belonged**.

Warm-soothing hands met with curves of his back. Straight up—over—shivering, shoulders. Words sounded—yet were far from his grasp. All he wanted was to be left alone. His mind was overloaded. Skin unclean—again. And he never felt more shame than he did, right **now**.

Why did she keep trying? He was not a part of her. He could **never** be Theon. Not a Lord, just a thoughtless, hound

Highborn ladies did not mix with cock-less hounds.

It was the **way** of things.

 

 

* * *

**_Sansa_ **

 

Despite the puddle of wetness, she awoke in, Sansa did not panic. Refused to become upset with Reek. She knew it could not be helped.

His skin was suffering—his mind split in half. It was a wonder he was able to move at all—let alone speak. After the intense-trauma that he was forced to endure at the hands of literal monsters, she could not imagine how Reek must feel.

How he **coped**.

There were no proper words to describe the sight of him. Now that the bruises upon his face had swollen—and countless more had sprouted up all over his front, and back. The burned spaces along his skin were angry, red-welts. His rear-end had the distinct-appearance of a warzone.

She would have been stunned if he had made it to a privy, or chamber pot. She expected his unhinging. However, it did not devastate her any less, to witness.

Curled in on himself, Sansa watched, helpless, as he broke apart on the bedsheets. His head shook, indicating he had no intention of leaving the soiled sheets. Far worse, she doubted he could even hold himself upright, had he **attempted** to stand.

“Tell me what you need, Reek. I…I only desire to help, you. Please…Let me help.” Without hesitance she settled back upon the stained sheets—encompassed his fragile-form within the warmth of taut-arms.

 Shudders rustled throughout his form. Sansa could feel the strain of his battered flesh. However, no response ensued.

Rather, Reek sobbed. Thick—Deep, things in the back of his hoarse, vocals.

All the while, Sansa nestled, warm—heated. Right up against his form.

Let the bareness of her skin press in on him. Ignored the pound of distress in her own beating heart. Reek needed to be held.

He needed reassurance.

Love. Compassion.

He needed his dignity to be restored, unto him.

“Reek, we can lie here all day, upon these soiled sheets if you desire to, but I will not leave you alone. I made you a promise. And I intend to keep it. You are safe. And we belong to each other—just as we always will.” Whispered little breaths, tickled his ear.

She would keep speaking. Continue to whisper—until he grasped what she meant.

What she felt in her very pit, and core.

Still, he only shuddered—then sobbed—deeper in his throat. Clearly—gutted.

Wispy-fingers curved across the line of his stubble-clad, jaw. Brushed just over the coarse texture. Let him feel how soft, her touch was—how warm.

Reassuring.

He settled.

His sobs ceased—however, no motion was made to uncurl from the ball-like shape, he took.

Still, something told her—she had his ear.

“Reek? Do you recall the night Ramsay had you bathe me?” A rippling, shudder which encompassed the entirety of his form, answered for him.

“I was so frightened when he ordered you away. I feared that he would kill you for the kindness you offered me. When you held my hand, it made all of the pain he inflicted before, lessen inside of me. Like, your touch, could cure what he fractured within me. And the mere thought of losing that—losing **you** —was unthinkable. So, when you knelt there, mortified, soaked in your own accident—” He shuddered, bodily again. “—Cleaning my skin, all I could think about was how deeply you were beginning to mean to me. How profoundly I had begun to fall in love with you. I wanted to kiss you, then, Reek. Had I not feared that Ramsay was spying upon us—I would have. Every little brush of that rag over my skin, made me tingle. Lust—for you. I wanted you, Reek. Just as I will **always** want you. I have kept this secret, Husband. Such a secret…For the duration of time since I came to know you were **separate** from Theon. Do you want to know what the secret is? Hm?”

His shuddering had come to an end. Finally—she held his full, undivided attention.

“W-What s-secret?” He uncurled—turned in her coiled-arms.

“I loved you, first. Not just as a childish, crush where we tussled in the grasses. I loved you with a woman’s heart. I knew—if I could free us from this hell, I would find the courage to offer you my heart in return. I would find a manner in which we could be one.” Their lips were mere, inches apart. Hot-breath tickled his lips.

Her hands lifted; skin found purchase against skin.

Broadness, of his chest—burned with scorched-heat, underneath her eager-fingers. His skin shivered.

“L-Lady…S-Sansa…” His throat tightened. She could see it.

“I touched myself that night. I thought of you, as I touched. I never told a soul, not even, you. I burned for you, Reek. It does not matter to me, if you are not whole—I am no more whole than you are. Ramsay made certain I would bear the brunt of his abuse for the rest of my days. Just the same as he did for you.” Neck, tilted, pink-lips brushed Reek’s.

He whined.

“So, tell me Reek. Do you think I mind waking up alongside of you, like this? I am your wife. If you cannot stay clean, I will clean you. We will clean each other. Or, if you prefer the filth, then we stay like this. Both of us. I care not, Reek. But you are my husband. I love you. Dirty. Clean. It does not much, matter to me. Understand?”

She needed him to comprehend what she meant. How far she was willing to go, to protect his sanity. His heart—Him.

Brisk-fingers lowered. Grazed the sticky-wet, prod of his stub. Rubbed easing-circles around sensitive-skin. Reek jerked.

Whined—anew.

“W-We…c-cannot…l-ladies are m-meant to be c-clean…”

“I am not just a lady, Reek. I am your wife. And you are my husband. You are a Lord, Reek. And you have been through a trauma. Many traumas…But I still find you attractive. I want you, Reek. I yearn to take away your agony. I know you must be sore. Just a little taste of pleasure should quell you, for a few moments. Hm?”

Unable to answer, bruised-arms reached for her. With a subtle roll—He was atop her frame. Needy-fingers spread her. Thighs wide—He pushed down against the swell of her pearl.

How she needed her husband—Needed this.

Fingers wormed into the uneven strands of thick—cut—curls. She pulled. Drew him down to pair with her reddened-lips. Tasted his lips as he kissed.

Sought. Needed.

“I wanted you to take me—just like this—that night. Your touch burned me, Reek. It made me swollen—slick—between my thighs. Will you take from me, now, Reek? Husband?”

Care was thrown to the wind. Respectability—Virtue, right along with it.

Who would know if they rutted upon, unclean sheets?

Who would care?

Her intent was to distract. But she also spoke **truth**. Every word—held truth.

She fell deep in love with **this** soul— **His** spirit.

Reek could not restrain his urges—that became clear.

She awoke something in him. Something **primal**. His wrecked-form—made little ruts. Screamed. Heaved. Needed.

His whines were loud, heaving things.

“Yes! More, Reek…Let go, for me.” Coaxed into submission. Reek rutted. Caved.

Lowering his chin, he suckled from her teat. She felt the strong pull of her milk as it surged between raw-lips. Her nipples heightened in sensitivity. Pearl-throbbed against his needy-stub. Every buck made her wilder—needier. She ignored the feeling of wet on her back. Between her thighs, where they met.

Her focus was on Reek.

His needs—His lusts.

He drooled on her. Lost conscious control. Trembled. Took. Throbbed.

She never felt—never needed—this badly. Never like this. But Reek felt good, atop her.

And she needed him. Craved his touch. His kisses. All of him.

“R-Reek…Gods…” Warm-fingers tugged on hair-curls. Their skin melded—sweltered with the combination of their sweat.

Moans emitted forth from exerted-lips. Disconnecting from her teat, the cracked things met with her soft-petals. Her tongue flicked out—tasted sweet-milk on the circumference of those lips.

Her milk.

Still, his ruts continued. Needful, spiked things. She did not know how he found the energy he sought. But, he did.

She was soaring high with bliss. Heart beating against her ribcage. Her thoughts run-rampant in her mind.

“S-Sansa…Mmm…C-Close…” Strained words formed. In-between heated kisses.

Strong—depleted arms, gathered her up. And with a final tremor, Reek spent.

Throbs twitched against her pleasure-pearl. And her back arched as she released in unison.

Fiery-pulses surged through every surface. Her entire core.

Spent. Lingering in each other’s embrace. Sansa could sense that his trepidation was long forgotten. She had finally reached him.

All she needed was to tell him the truth.

The whole truth.

Appeal to the needs that pattered right underneath his skin.

Just where his **heart** was. Where his needs as a man—as a physical being—laid.

“I love you, Husband. More than I could ever hope to say.”

He shivered. Tingled—laid motionless, heaving for air atop her bodice.

“I-I l-love you t-too…L-Lady…S-Sansa…” Reek burrowed into her neckline.

Held himself together by her will.

She held him. Gave him strength as she could.

And knew it would take a long while for him to recover from his traumas—but now—held hope that he would indeed— **recover**.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _I love hearing all of your theories, and comments about where this story is going! Hearing from all of you is always so interesting for me! I cannot believe how many of you are so enthralled with my fic! Theonsa for life bbys!_


	30. Part 30; To Begin Healing

**_Part 30; To Begin Healing_ **

* * *

 

 

> _I want you to undress_
> 
> _your heart, and show_
> 
> _me how much it hurts,_
> 
> _so that I can show you_
> 
> _how I intend to make it_
> 
> _stop._

* * *

 

**_Sansa_ **

It was a long time before either of them sought fit to move. Once they caught their breath—awoke from the sleepy-haze they succumbed to, it became apparent that Reek had decisively, made up his mind, about what his desires were.

Sansa had known all along of Reek’s formidable attraction to her.

From that first instinctual moment when his hand engulfed hers—Entwined. Linked with her bony-fleshed hand, after Ramsay’s torment—She had known.

Perhaps, it ran deeper—Further down than she had admitted within his ear-shell—However, she was still deciphering the patterns of her heart.

Constantly making sense of what laid written there.

“So, what have you decided, Husband?” Yearning deep-down to remind him of their inseverable bond—She cooed. Dainty-fingers tangled in hair-curls. Sweat, soaked into the strands. Cold, itchy—stickiness dried on her skin. However, it was his decision what came next.

Sansa would not push.

Breathy-huffs emerged, from his broken, hoarse-vocals.

 Languishing moments of silence, ensued.

She wondered if he would even deem a response—necessary.

“Y-You need to b-be clean, L-Lady S-Sansa.” Fingers curled; Reek brushed curved-edges of her cheek. Jaw. Neck.

Found courage enough (it would seem) to stare within her eyes.

“And then?” Coaxing; She awaited further instruction.

Haunted-optics sought hers. “I…know n-not, My L-Lady.” Stutters still parted from swelled-brims. Rapid, heartbeats were made against dainty-fingers, pressed upon his chest-cage.

 “I made Jon a promise. That we would deal with the men that…did this to you.” Sensitively, pauses were made, in-between uncertain-toned, words. Sansa did not desire to further startle him with truths he was not yet, prepared to hear.

Reek shuddered.

“I d-do not ever w-want to s-see those m-men, again. P-Please…L-Lady Sansa…I c-cannot…” Tears wet the underside of tired-eyes.

Reassuring-thumbs brushed away, any stray tears. Whilst warmth invaded Reek’s form.

“And you never will. Not if you do not wish to.” She quieted his fears, with calm resolve. “But Jon and I need to know what you do. As much as you can recall. So that we are absolutely certain that we execute the truly responsible parties. You would not wish an innocent to die for another’s crime. Would you?” Speaking sense, Sansa knew the risk of permitting Jon to have contact with Reek.

Jon could not understand Reek.

Not fully.

Reek shook his head, solemnly.

“You also are in urgent need of the Maester.” Calculated whispers, departed.

With wide eyes, Reek’s head shook—vigorously.

“P-Please…I d-do not w-want to b-be touched…n-not by a-anyone e-else…”

Sansa figured that his response would be along those lines. Which was precisely the reason she had held off, as long as she had. But she was no Maester. She was therefore, unable to anticipate (with any real certainty) which of these fresh marks, were most critical to oversee.

“Please, Reek. You know a Maester is trained for such things. I am not. I might have overlooked something. You could die…” Tears, now, rimmed her eyes. Skin pulsed red, flushing through her veins.

Fear shone in those emerald-optics. Trembles wracked through his form. Sansa only drew in closer—collected a kiss from pink-lips.

When she retracted, she recognized the defeated glance cross over his features. “A-Alright…But y-you have to s-stay, Lady S-Sansa. P-Please? D-Do not l-leave me…a-alone…”

“I would never do that, Reek. Come along, now. If you desire me to be clean, then we shall bathe together.” Sansa left no room for argument—slid from between bed-furs, crossed their chambers—drew a robe around her frame to shield her decency—and sought out the servants.

Instructed them to run a bath, then change the bedlinens. With some difficulty, she managed to maneuver Reek into an upright position. Then, planted him in the bathwater. Before shedding the robe to join him.

Solemn—embarrassed—eyes sought out those pretty, young-females that were stripping apart the bedsheets. Barely suppressing, knowing smiles, as they worked.

“Hey. Do not look at them, Reek.” Sansa turned his cheek, let calming-blue optics sear into his.

“T-They know I a-am not g-good enough for y-you…” Sansa’s eyes caught the feminine creatures suppressing their laughter for a second time, and found it prudent to speak up.

“If something is funny, do share the joke with everyone.” Both girls jumped. Stalled in their tracks by the sudden interruption of their duties. Quickly, they gathered up the sheets, and made way for the door, before, Sansa could prevent them.

With a sigh, she settled into the heated bathwater. Dragged the warm-heat of a soft rag, over Reek’s skin. Cleansing him of all filth, whilst he absently did the same for her.

“Pay them no mind, Reek. You are recovering from a trauma that they could never even, remotely comprehend, themselves. They are silly, young girls. Whom, meant no harm.” Sansa doubted they were even past their thirteenth nameday. “I will help you train your mind to wake you when you have need to use the privy. I promise. Perhaps, Theon has some pointers for you. He learned to control it for the most part.” Sansa knew she was treading upon thin ice, but she needed him to know that she would push through—Continue fighting alongside of him, until the bitter end.

“I…I am n-not trainable…” Scarlet filled his cheeks—straight down to his chest. “H-Hounds are m-meant to b-be filthy…”

“You are **not** a hound, Reek. You are a **man**. No matter what Ramsay said to you. I believe you are salvageable. Your soul is still pure. You are a good man. I **promise** , that you will be well taken care of. No man, woman, or creature will have cause to inflict pain upon you again.”

Reek fell silent. They proceeded to clean in the heavy silence. Until, each of them was fully refreshed. The servants remade the bed without so much as a smile, before departure.

“I will go for the Maester, after we get you dried, and into bed. Is that alright?” She wanted to make certain that Reek felt in control. Never yearned for him to feel taken advantage of again.

Reek nodded.

With a little coaxing, she stood him upright. Used a fluffy, woven-towel to dry him, bodily. Prior to guiding him back upon the now, clean bedlinens. He appeared to relax into the silky-soft fabric. Sansa left him unclothed for the Maester.

“I will go get him. I will be right back, Reek.” Sansa planted a kiss upon his forehead, before departing from their bedchambers.

Dressed in a fine, corset, and flowing gown. Headed to the Maester’s chambers, Sansa paid no mind to the eyes that sought her out. Guards took to gawking at her. Even servants. Most had heard of—some witnessed—the curious proclivities she partook in with her husband.

Much to Jon’s derision.

Sansa paid no heed to the consistent stares, However. Having grown used to curious eyes upon her whilst she had occupied the halls of King’s Landing. As the Queen’s little bird whom hailed from the North—She had been an oddity.

Especially, once Robb took up arms against the Lannister’s. Hailing himself King in the North.

Now Jon was the King—and Sansa felt at home, despite the obtuse-stares.

Poised at the Maester’s door—She hesitated. Before knocking.

“You should have called for me, straightaway. If his afflictions are too far gone, then I may be unable to heal them.” Moments later, Sansa was hurrying down the hall, alongside of the elderly, Maester. Apparent, disrepair, wrote over his features.

“I know my husband, and he was unable to handle the upheaval of anyone’s hands touching him, aside from mine. I cleansed the wounds as best I could. And have kept him as clean as I am able. But he is most afraid of touch, as I am certain you can understand.” Sansa urged. Refusing to be given a tongue-lash, like a disobedient, child.

He paused, gave her a pointed-look, then proceeded. “I know of what ails him, Lady Sansa. It is of no consequence. I still should have been called, clear away.”

Her jaw set, irritation founded in her blue-optics. “I am aware of what **should** have been done, Maester Alecor, but you have never treated my husband.” In-fact the Maester was new to Winterfell. Had only just arrived a moon ago. Prior to then, there had been no Maester.

“No, I have not, treated him. But I delivered Little Robb, and I saw quite enough, of him to know his behavior patterns. He does not do well, under stress. No matter the kind. His body is underweight. His mind, frail. It took quite a bit of convincing to convince your Husband to calm himself, whilst you were in labor. Even then, he was not calm. Rather the opposite. Refused even to put on a scrap of clothing so that he might retain his decency.”

Sansa recalled bits, and pieces of her labor. She had been between consciousness, and unconsciousness at the time.  She remembered almost squeezing Theon’s hand—crushing bone. He had not so much as jerked the thing away. Merely let her squeeze. Scream. Cling to him.

She cracked a smile. “My husband is unique, in more than just one manner, Maester Alecor. His mind is not merely, frail, but damaged. It appears as though he has split himself into different personalities. His mind is lost to his true name for the moment. He is Reek, currently.”

Seeming to have piqued his interest, Maester Alecor raised a brow. “Has he? Well it is of no surprise to me. I have heard of such an affliction, although it is quite rare.”

Sansa nodded, pretending not to be surprised by such news. There were others like Theon? The thought made her shiver.

Finally, having arrived back to their chambers, Maester Alecor, permitted himself entry. Opened the door.

Reek startled. Eyes widened at the sight of Maester Alecor. Sansa was quick to cross the room, settled alongside him.

“It is just me, Reek. No need to be frightened, and I brought Maester Alecor. Do you remember him?

Reek appeared to seek the memory. Then nodded—cautiously.

“H-He delivered…y-your b-baby…”

Sansa smiled. “And now he is going to fix you up. I will be right here. Do not be frightened.”

Maester Alecor stood nearby, witnessed their exchange with an unreadable expression upon his wrinkled-features. He was a rather soft-spoken man. With a quick-paced step for an elderly man. Although, he seemed to hold deep compassion, and understanding for those he treated. His sharp-tongue and wits vanquished, when he began to tend Reek.

“I promise to be brief, young man. I wish to cause you no more harm than has already been inflicted. I will try to be gentle, if you wish me to cease at any time, so you might have a break, you need only ask.”  Maester Alecor lowered his kit of tinctures upon the bedside table. It held various instruments of medicine. Some familiar to Sansa—others not.

With great care, Maester Alecor drew close, took heed of Reek’s slight cringe as he peeled back the bed-furs. Sansa kept intent-focus upon his face, as he sought the damage inflicted. Even he appeared unnerved by the extent of trauma, Reek’s body bore the brunt of. Especially when his exam made it to the scorched, bubbled-up, burns over Reek’s sides, abdomen, pelvis, and derriere.

“These burns are worst. They are on the verge of infection.” Rapidly, Maester Alecor mashed up a tincture. Applied the proper herbs, in quick succession, then applied the paste to all of Reek’s burns. Reek made animal-like noises of pain, and reached out. Sought, Sansa’s hand.

Without hesitation, she grasped on tight. Felt him squeeze, then burrow his head into the feather-pillow. “It will be over soon, Reek. Just hold on a little longer.” Sansa cooed. Brushed spare-fingers through his curls.

Maester Alecor worked with agile, certainty. Bandaged the afflicted areas with cloth, in order to keep the paste on.

Reek’s hand unclenched when the worst was through. And Maester Alecor made quick work of surveying the rest of him. Applied cream to his bruised face. Then, left Milk of the Poppy for any pain that proved too much to bear.

Reek’s eyes widened at the sight. Then shook his head.

“I…I do not want Milk of the P-Poppy…N-Never again…”

Sansa recognized the quirk of Maester Alecor’s brow. “It will permit your body a bit of time to mend without the thrall of pain. You will take longer to heal if you refuse. But alas, it is your choice.”

“His attackers used Milk of the Poppy to subdue him…” Sansa explained. Warm-arms clutched Reek as hot-tears burned her skin.

“I see.” Maester Alecor, appeared troubled by the news. “Unfortunately, it is the most effective for pain, I known not, what else can be given to alleviate him.” Sympathetic eyes, found hers, as he cleared away the equipment, he used to create the tinctures. Maester Alecor clicked the case closed, hoisting it back over his shoulder.

“Thank you, Maester Alecor. For your expertise.” He gave a hasty nod.

“Replace the bandages twice a day, and apply this tincture to his burns.” Maester Alecor pointed out the small flask left alongside the Milk of the Poppy, on their bedside table.

Consciously, she gave a nod in response.

“He will pull through. I see nothing that indicates otherwise. But he will be in quite a bit of pain without a few dosages of Poppy.” With that final bit of advice, Maester Alecor, took his leave.

The hollow echo of the closed chamber-doors, lingered. Reek gave soft little sobs into her neckline as she held him. Near—tight, in comforting-arms.

“Might you take some later, tonight, Reek? I promise I will stay with you the whole time. You will be safe. I will hold you.” Humming in soft-edged tones, Sansa kissed his cheek. “I do not wish for you to be in constant pain.” Currently, they had to meet with Jon, and he needed to be of clear conviction. Tonight, however—There would be no need to fret over how clear his mind would be.

“I c-cannot…” Fearfully, his head shook.

“What if I take it with you? Hm? It is supposed to make you feel good. I hear it can even heighten pleasure.” Coaxingly, her stray-hand rubbed up and down the length of his back. Massaged—groped, rubbed clean circles around his muscles.

He moaned, haughtily into her neck. His sniffles subsiding.

“Tonight? What do you say?” Subtly, her pink-petals, grazed over his neck-column.

Finally, he seceded.

“T-Tonight…” He vowed.

 

 

* * *

 

 

**_Reek_ **

 

Nervously, Reek settled against the wooden, headboard. Painfully, having dressed in respectable clothes. Sansa would no longer permit him to wear his rags. Those that Ramsay gifted him. Instead, he was made to wear breeches that were clean, tunics with elegant fabric, and washed, smallclothes.

This attire was unfamiliar to Reek. Used to the filth, Ramsay permitted him to stay in, he felt discomfort.

Foolishly, he squirmed.

“You are handsome.” Sweet promises departed those pretty-petals of hers.

All Reek could feel was discomfort. The fabric rubbed against his cloth-bandages. The applied tincture, made his burns, twinge with upset. But Sansa needed him to stay conscious—alert. So that he might recall the haziness of torture he endured—to Jon.

Reek feared Jon.

Not just remotely—but wholeheartedly. Well aware that Jon held no affection for him, Reek’s heart pummeled his ribcage at the mere thought of conversing with him.

Sansa, donned in a beautifully-flimsy navy-blue, gown, hovered alongside of him. He sighed into the gentility of her touch.

“Y-You are beautiful.” Reek asserted. Fretful-eyes, overseeing her form.

Reek had overheard, Sansa encourage a servant to collect Jon. A few minutes had passed since then. Sweat was beginning to build on his palms, whilst they awaited his appearance.

With a jolt, the doors swung open. In stepped Jon—and horrifyingly—six prisoners. Chains clanked—rattled. Angered features pinched, on their faces. And Reek shrieked in terror—hiding his face in Sansa’s bosom.

“Y-You p-promised…” Was all that he could manage to squeak out. Terrors wreaked havoc in his gut. His flesh crawled down his back as searing memories of those men, gouged his mind. Instinctively, hurried-arms, clutched him near. Fingers soothed into his remaining, hair-curls.

Wracked with sobs, Reek’s mind caved in. Unhinged with terror.

“Jon! I requested **your** presence! Not the prisoners as well! Remove them! **Now**!” Reek listened as she shrieked at Jon.

“Still a coward. You gonna piss yourself again, Reek?” One of them chided.

Rough, distinct vocals pierced Reek’s heart—made him cower. He clenched his muscles. Refused to have an accident from fear. Not in front of Jon—Sansa…Again.

“Did you not like my gift? I seared your name into your skin.” Another taunted in apparent, pride.

“You heard her! Remove them.” Jon snapped, impatiently.

Reek sobbed—broke apart in Sansa’s arms.

Flashes—visions of those men, holding their cocks. Pissing on him. In the light of dawn—more images—ones he wished he could forsake. Cold-furred nose pressed to his jaw. Growls, screams—tears of clothes. Ghost must have taken them down. The warm arms—Jon’s arms. He could recall clearly. He had been kept so warm.

The vile men proceeded to taunt; their voices growing dimmer. Herded from the room—loud bootsteps were close behind.

“They are gone. You are safe, it will not happen again, Reek. It was a mistake. You can open your eyes.” Reassuring-tones tickled his ear-shell.

Finally, he gathered his courage. Focused green-orbs upon their chambers. Vacant now, aside from Sansa, and Jon.

“I apologize, Sansa. I believed you asked for me so that the men might be identified.”

Reek refused to meet his eye.

Trembling with apparent rage, Sansa’s cold-eyed stare pierced Jon. “There was no mistake, Brother. You brought them here on purpose. Did you not? You wanted to frighten him.” Spoken as a statement, less of a question, Sansa drew from his arms. He felt her warmth dissipate—and sniffled.

Wide-eyed, Reek watched them.

Would Jon do that? Purposefully torment him?

He just might.

“I did no such thing!”

“Do not play me for a fool, Brother! You despise my husband!”

“If I despised him as much as you believe, then I would not have saved his miserable life! I would have left him to die in that snowbank!”

Reek could not withstand the argument. His head seared with unimaginable pain. The fright of those men, afore him—had stirred his other personalities. Particularly, Theon. Riled them with fear—and now they crashed around inside of his mind. Panicked. Fearful.

Just like Reek.

“P-Please…D-Do not f-fight…” Stutters emerged.

Sansa appeared primed to strike back, but upon his pleadful utterance—She held her tongue.

“I apologize, Reek.” Sansa offered immediately.

Jon only went silent—No apology came.

Forcibly, Reek straightened his back. Strived for a tad bit of dignity. He knew Jon believed him to be a lowly creature. Like Ramsay did. For Sansa—He wanted to disprove, Jon’s theory—even if Reek himself was still unconvinced of his own status as a gutless, hound.

“I asked you here so that you might have a conversation, Jon. About what transpired—so that we might be assured we had the proper men in our dungeon, but from the sound of it—the proper men are in hand.”

Jon gave a curt nod. “And the woman?”

His eyes pierced Reek. Made him feel suddenly, exposed. Naked.

“T-That was h-her…” Brief flashes of Theon’s lips connected with hers, came to mind. He shoved the memory back away. Tabled it. How could he ever explain such a wretched memory to Sansa? Theon betrayed her—their marriage. Would she forgive him for it?

Reek shivered.

“I apologize for what was done to you, Reek.” Reek took note of Jon’s bloodshot eyes, wavering—uneven tone. It was apparent, Jon had indulged in spirits.

Fidgeting with silky, bed-furs, Reek swallowed thickness in his throat.

“I-It is n-not your f-fault…T-Theon did t-this…H-He should have s-stayed with S-Sansa…” Unable to take an apology—and comprehend it—Reek instead granted excuses for the happenings.

After all—He deserved what happened.

Reek was deserving of only pain—He was instilled with that belief.

“No, Reek. This was not your fault.” Jon offered kindness, despite the prickly, nature of his words, previously.

Even, Sansa appeared shocked. She settled at his side. Wrapped an arm round his middle—kissed his temple.

Reek sighed into her touch. Let his crawling skin—ease, under gentle-fingers.

“I will make them pay, Reek. They will suffer—I will not just hang them, I promise. They will know pain.” Chills flushed up his spine—but he made no contradiction. He cared little for what became of those vile men.

“T-Thank you…” Nuzzled, securely at her side. Reek glowed.

Justice came to all men—eventually.


	31. Part 31; To Seek Vengeance.

**_Part 31; To Seek Vengeance._ **

* * *

 

> _You can’t keep dancing_
> 
> _With the devil_
> 
> _And wondering why_
> 
> _You’re still in hell._

* * *

 

**_Sansa_ **

True to her word, Sansa made quick work of seeing to the torment of those that had scarred, Theon. The same as she had Ramsay.

With pertinence, Sansa tucked Reek in—made certain that he had no qualms about her absence, before she gave him the softest of kisses.

Then, set out, down into the dungeon, underneath Winterfell. It was a dark, barely accessible area. Covered in dirt, dust, and shadows.

Ramsay, once used these cruel, sullen-spaces, in order to string up Reek if he stepped a toe out of line. A reminder that wherever Reek went—Ramsay was more than capable of torturing his flesh.

Sansa, shivered at the memory. But she recalled what these men had done to her beloved. Had viewed the aftermath of their cruelty—and felt not a lick of sympathy.

She had Ramsay’s saltire dragged from its storage, where it had stood, forebodingly, awaiting its next victim. To imagine the countless men, and women Ramsay had strung up to this instrument of horror, made Sansa’s bones chill with ice. Cruelty was bestowed on even the most hapless of individuals, in Westeros. And the least worthy, were presented with the most power.

Sansa learned that, from Joffrey.

With a nod to the Winterfell guards, the first of the men in chains, held-fast within the iron-bars of the jail-cell, was hauled out.

A man, brutish in size, whom towered over Reek’s height, easily. When Sansa imagined how scared her husband must have been. Both Theon—and Reek, to be at the complete mercy of even one of these muscled, towering men, her heart ached.

Sansa had felt the blade of Ramsay’s knife pierce her skin. Could still remember the cold, steel. The serrated edge as he marked her. Hurt her. Made Reek watched, when it pleased him. She swallowed down the bile.

She would do this. For Reek.

“Do you know what this is?” Sansa gestured to the saltire; the brute was being tied down to. Arms high overhead, legs stretched—taut.

“Do I look like I care, cunt?” Sharp, biting tones met her ear. Instinctively, one of the guards punched the sturdy-man in the jaw.

Sansa’s ocean-eyes remained cool. Unaffected by the man’s sharp tongue.

“It is where Ramsay Bolton used to string up his victims. He would skin them, carve into them, nice and slow. See just how long it took, before their hearts would give out. Or they would plead for death.” Her lips drew into a thin smile, eyes narrowed. “It also happens to be the wooden structure, where my husband was strung up. Mercilessly tortured, cut, brutalized, until his mind broke apart. Until, he was no longer one person, but multiple.”

Sansa bent down, lifted a discarded blade from the stone. Dust, and blood tainted the blade. It was a relic from the past. Most likely, thrown down by Ramsay one of the many times he skewered a man. She guessed.

“He was a treacherous cunt, just as you are, for marrying him. After what he did to this castle. Your home. He deserved everything that I did to him. Everything that was done to him by that Bolton bastard, too.” The man looked upon her, unaffected. Beady-eyed.

Sansa’s jaw set; skin bubbled with anger.

“Theon never touched a hair on either of my brothers’ heads. Ramsay killed Rickon. Bran has never been recovered, and I have forgiven him, for any part he played in the seize of my home. He has paid for it. Ten-fold. Not that you, or any of these other men, and woman—” Sansa gave a hard stare at the whore, whom shivered, crying in the cell amongst the men. “—have a right to judge him, nor anyone else. You are not the Lord of Winterfell. That right falls to my brother. Jon.”

“Your bastard, brother.” He corrected.

Finished restraining him, the guards stepped clear of him. Moved to stand in the far corner, out of sight.

Sansa crept across the stone, until she was right in front of the stinking, ale-breathed, monster.

“My brother.” She enunciated. Fire, burning in her eyes. “I made a promise to my husband. You will know pain. All of you will.” She eyed the others again, for emphasis. “The same pain that Theon felt. All of it. We will see just how many of you, piss yourselves, lose your minds. Pass out. We will see, what you can endure. Before I am done, you will all be Reek. I will have it no other way.”

Time had hardened, Sansa. Burdened her soul—and Ramsay had hurt her in unimaginable ways. This should have triggered her. Sent her back into the petrified rubble she began with, directly after she ran from Ramsay’s clutches, with Theon.

But she did not.

For her husband, she could endure anything. Even using a blade to torture another human being.

Without thought, nor care. Sansa began to carve into the man’s skin. Watched blood dribble from the wound. Crimson, thick. He was bare from the waist up. Only his breeches, and smallclothes on were permitted to remain on his lower-half.

Sansa had memorized the scars that marred her husband’s flesh. Drank them in, when she kissed a pattern down his winding-torso. It never occurred to her, that such intimate knowledge, might come in handy—but it did now.

Despite this man’s screams she made cut, after cut. Deep enough to scar. Mark for mark, almost a mirror image of Theon’s. Internally, Sansa could feel her gut reel with sadistic pleasure, at making this monster suffer. Every scream, like music to her ears. Knowing that he had pinned her precious Reek down onto a whore’s mattress, and taken pride in tearing him open? Only made this easier.

“I have only just begun. Already you squeal like a pig.” She taunted him. Carelessly.

For a man whom refused to shut up only a few minutes ago—he now practiced the opposite. He was silent. Except for his screams.

“How disappointing.” Amusement breeched her eyes.

She set to work again, reveling in his screams as she pierced through his flesh. Finally, all of the cuts were complete. Although they were hardly the worst of what Reek had endured.

Sansa flicked the man’s right nipple, made it hard to the touch. Gripped it tight, and carved it off. He screamed like a little girl. And she felt sick, thrill at the sound.

Chancing a glance over toward the cage of other prisoners, she saw the horror written on their features. Fear struck a dalliance, in their eyes. Especially the female’s; she was huddled in the farthest corner. Trembling. Fretfully.

She threw the man’s nipple onto the stone, wiped the blood on her dress. Already, her gown was covered in spatters of blood. She cared little, if she ruined the thing. It was her least favorite. Dull-blue. Least appealing on her porcelain, complexion.

With steady fingers, Sansa unlaced the man’s breeches. Listened to his pitiful squabble. Pleas for her not to hurt him anymore. Pleas for death.

“My husband begged, too.” Her eyes found the man’s. Unashamed—unafraid—to look him in the eyes, whilst she emasculated him.

“He begged, Ramsay not to cut off his cock. Begged him to show mercy. But Ramsay never granted mercy. Nor did you. When my husband laid underneath you, pleading for it to stop—terrified, drugged. You climbed on top of him and used your cock to rape him, until he bled. So go on, beg me. Beg me for mercy. See how far it gets you. How much I care to listen.” To Ramsay, this had all been merciful.  “This is mercy. I have not killed you for what you did, not yet. You will want death, and maybe…I will grant you clemency. When there is nothing left of you to tear apart.”

“P-Please…I will n-never do anything like it again…”

She scoffed, “That, we can agree on.”

Without further care to hear his appeal, she began to hack at the skin of his cock. Felt the fresh, pink thing twitch in her hand. Glimmered with pride as the man began to scream for his mother. For mercy—for anything. Blood splattered over her gown, gushed every which way. Until she was coated in his blood—his urine, as it sprayed all over her. She hacked until the swollen part fell away from his body. Until he was a blubbering wreck of a man.

Sobbing. Whining.

She turned back toward the other prisoners. With the man’s cock in hand. Eyes cold, hard.

“You used your cocks to brutalize my husband. Now you will know what it is like not to have one. My mercy? I am not going to kill you. Not for a long time. You will suffer. Just like Reek. Tied down to a saltire.”

With that, she dropped the flaccid, length. Let it thud to the stone. “Guards?” The men approached her; unfazed by the violence. “Bring the other saltires. I want to string them all up. Now.”

 

 

* * *

 

**_Reek_ **

 

Fire crackled in the hearth; Reeks worn-eyes found comfort in the crackle. The embers. It reminded him that warmth was never far from view.

 **Never**.

Sansa might have tucked the bear-furs around the sides of his form, but Reek was lost in his thoughts. Without Sansa—his safety net—there would be no sleep. Her warmth was necessary for him to find peace.

Instead, he found himself engulfed in the fireplace. Uncomfortable against the bandages, the Maester had wrapped over his burns.

He hurt. Everywhere.

Irritation bubbled on his skin, and he sighed into the feel of discomfort.

Suddenly, the door creaked open. It was a maiden, youthful, swollen in the cheeks. Little Robb was cradled in her arms. Her soft-brown eyes landed upon him.

“Oh! Dreadfully sorry, Milord…I finished feeding the wee, babe, and thought he might enjoy a bit of time with his mum.” Most of the servants avoided him. Others regarded him with disdain. This was the first time; he was greeted with a title. Most never addressed him at all, if it could be avoided.

Flushed in the face, Reek surveyed the small bundle. Anxiety bubbled in his belly. It was a part of Ramsay. Born of rape—of **hurt**. Deviance.

For a moment—he wanted to tell Sansa’s wet-nurse to take the babe—and **leave**. But then, he thought of Sansa.

Warm, soft, **loving** , Sansa.

The babe was part of her too.

“B-Bring him here…” Reek was unused to ordering about, another. Such a deed was foreign, on his tongue.

Hesitantly, she complied. Brought the babe near. His bright eyes wide-open. Peeking around with wonder at everything in sight. Reek opened his arms, and she carefully guided Little Robb into them.

Reek swallowed the knot of fear in his throat. Let his heartbeat slow. He could see the warmth of Robb’s smile, it was intoxicating.

Pleasant, in every manner. Instead of anxiety, Reek felt calm.

 Ramsay was dead. Gone. He could not spread his poison to another being. Living, or dead. Never again.

He noticed the darkness that shrouded Ramsay, was absent within Little Robb’s eyes. He could almost feel Sansa’s brother; Robb himself, peering back at him.

“Are you alright to hold him, Milord? Or shall I return him to his nursery?” Startled. Reek had nearly forgotten she was still nearby, awaiting his dismissal.

“You can…l-leave him with m-me.” Sansa had been gone an undeterminable window of time already, and Reek could feel the loneliness creeping in.

“If you are certain.” She still seemed hesitant to leave him.

Reek was used to the sidelong glances. Distrustful eyes of other servants. What did they believe he might do to a babe? Despite his fear of Little Robb, he could never harm a piece of Sansa. That is what Little Robb was. Sansa’s son. If he closed his eyes, Reek could still picture the moment Little Robb was born. Theon had been there. Holding Sansa’s hand.

“He is my s-son. Of course, I a-am.” Reek stared her down; dared her to challenge his claim.

“Of course, I meant no harm, Milord.” She gave a curtsy, then hurried from his chambers. Seemingly unable to be free of his presence, fast enough.

Even though Sansa cleaned his skin. Made him presentable in breeches, and a tunic—it made him **feel** no different. Those in Winterfell had seen him curled in a heap of rags, and stench. Most had snickered at his appearance at one point, or another. Clean appearances garnered him no respectability.

Little Robb was a quiet presence. Pure. Innocent. He was the one being that had no potential to hurt him. Not with words. Nor actions. Robb was perfect.

Reek took the quiet time, let Robb suck on his finger for comfort.

Low vibrations rumbled in his throat. Even though he must look a fright to the little bundle—Robb did not even flinch at his visage. Rather, cooed, and giggled. His cheeks blossoming into a tender smile.

How could such a tiny, nubile baby, spare a smile for a creature such as him?

Still bruised, and aching from the attack, he felt vulnerable. Tired. But somehow, attached to this child. Protective. Despite his own fear.

Reek could hear his other personalities, vying for attention. Seeking out the little life, he held in his arms. It was the first time he felt either of Theon’s personalities close to the surface. Both of them had been silent. Unyielding in their silence.

When he pulled—pushed—he felt them retract again. Burrow deep where he could not seek them.

With a sigh, he refocused his eyes on Robb.

Time seemed to be endless.

Still.

Reek could feel his stomach rumble with hunger pangs, hear the creaks of the floorboards as servants made their way throughout Winterfell’s halls. Sun-rays faded from the windowpane. Birds ceased to chirp in the skies. Sunset fell—and Sansa was still gone.

The wet-nurse returned for Little Robb, and Reek handed him over.

Not even aware of just when his arms had begun to cramp from cradling the bundle. His limps popped as he stretched them. Muscles ached with pains, both old, and new in nature.

Left alone, again. Reek hunkered down underneath his bed-furs. Let his skin be warmed by the soft things. Green-eyes drifted to the single, taunting vile of Poppy planted for him to take.

Even the thought made him shudder, but he remembered his promise to Sansa.

Tonight, they would take it **together**. Share the burden of helplessness, in the midst of dreadful-haze. Reek could still feel the unappealing pull; the panic as those men did as they pleased to his limp body. The pain was severe—but the memories of the tinctures capabilities was far worse.

Suddenly, the door opened with a jerk.

Startled, Reek sat up, bug-eyed. His skin paled at the sight. Sansa—his Sansa, coated in blood.

So much blood…

Red painted her navy-dress. Smeared her cheeks, stained her hands. Even clung strands of her hair together in clumps. Reek’s stomach churned.

“S-Sansa…W-W-W-What…?”

He could not find words. Such horror. It was everywhere—everywhere!

Seeming as though she had forgotten entirely, Sansa surveyed her own stained clothes—hands, bodice.

“I dealt with them.” Her tone barely wavered. Cold—like ice.

“D-D-Dealt…?”

Bile rose in his throat.

Knowing that she would make them suffer—and viewing the aftermath—were far different concepts to grasp.

“I sent for the servants to run a bath; I need to wash. You like it when I am clean, Reek. I remember.” She teased, for a moment—Reek saw a flicker of Ramsay in her. Ramsay would brush off the concept of being covered in another being’s blood in much the same way.

Airily, without pause to blink.

She took note of his apparent horror, only to draw close. Until she was inches from his face, and kissed him. He could taste iron-salt—blood on her petals. Smell the stench of piss.

He retracted.

“Did you…kill t-them?” Was it even possible to live after so much blood had been spilt?

“Of course not. I just hurt them a little. You think I am going to let them get away with what they did to you, so easily? I am going to leave them down there for a while.” Sadistic words fell from her lips. He barely recognized her as the woman whom talked him down from his worst humiliation just this morning.

Promised to love him. Cherish him.

He trembled. Could not meet her eyes.

“Y-You left them a-alive…?” His heart cinched.

“I took their most prized possessions. Just as Ramsay took yours. Do not fret for them. They did unspeakable things with their cocks. Now they will never harm, another soul. Never again, Reek.”

“Y-You…c-cut them…?” His mind reeled, unable to taper-down the constant storm of thoughts, rampaging through focally, within.

“They cried like babies.” She admitted, without shame.

Reek shivered.

“Remember what I told you this morning? We can be filthy, both of us. Together. I tire of being so clean, Reek. It felt so good to punish them. All of those monsters. I would do it again, for you, Reek. Anyone that hurts you, my husband. I will make them pay with blood. With suffering. And I will come back to you, covered in their blood. The blood, and piss of those that would hurt you.” Her breath tickled his lips. It was wrong that his stomach ceased to churn. Reek knew that it was.

Reprehensible still, that every vessel in his body sang for her. Wanted to agree with her assessment. That those men should have paid—dearly—for their crimes. The truth that he so desired to hide, somewhere in the very depths of his soul, was that he was madly in love with Sansa.

That his heart—his soul—belonged to her—despite the stain that scourged her soul, now. To torture men in such a brutal, unforgiving fashion, could damage a person. Wound their psyche.

He believed that she would have the guards hurt those men—not do it with her own two hands.

“L-Lady S-S-Sansa…” Her hand grazed his cheek, left traces of blood behind.

The scent of blood, and piss was all-relative to him. It did not turn his stomach—he spent so much of his time in filth, and ruin.

“Have you slept, Reek? Even a wink?” He leaned into the thumb that brushed his stubble-laden cheek.

“N-No…”

Her hand suddenly deviated, breeched the waist of his breeches. Brushed him through his smallclothes. He squirmed—air lodged in his throat.

“How about the privy? Have you made it there, alright?” Hot breath grazed his lower lip. Her thumb swirled around his stub, through the fabric. He jittered.

Pinked at the cheeks, he nodded.

“You sure? You feel a bit damp.”

He shifted—squirmed as those deft-fingers teased his stump. “I-It leaks s-sometimes…” He admitted to her.

She made a soft sound in her throat. Something between acknowledgement, and a tsk. He could not tell.

“Did you miss me today, Reek? Hm? Are you hungry?” His hunger stabbed again in his lower belly when she brought it up.

“It is l-lonely without you.” His lips parted, eyes rolled back as low, throbbing-pulses emanated in his lower-half. “Y-Yes…mm…h-hungry…” His mind was less, and less in control as he shifted around. Squirmed. Needed.

“I will let you bathe with me. And suckle—and rut…” He made whines as she retracted her thumb from his now, throbbing stub. He squeezed his thighs together. Swallowed thickness in his throat. “You just have to take the Poppy with me. Like you promised.”

Heavily, his chest rose and fell. His eyes peeked open through the blurring haze—and lust.

He nodded, willing to take it. He made a promise to her. And he was so raw, now. On fire—he would have given her his soul if she just kept stimulating him.

Vaguely, he registered that the servants were preparing the bath, behind her. Neither peeked up from their task, having learned the last time about boundaries—and laughter. Once he refocused on Sansa, she already had the dropper out. Ready to administer. Reek held out his tongue, took the liquid down his throat. Shivered at the radiating feel of it.

Within seconds, he was woozy. Lighter.

He saw Sansa take the liquid as well.

“Come on, Reek. We must undress ourselves.” She stood.

He shifted, and wobbled into an upright position of his own. Already, the pain was lessened by the potent drug. He felt lighter than air. Woozy, but somehow it just made him throb worse where she had touched. Made him want to seek the pleasure.

Once undressed, he followed her to the bathing tub. Felt the heat of the water as he climbed in after her. Drew her close, kissed her lips, sloppily. No longer heedful of the blood that smeared them. He felt good.

He felt like a man.

Just this once.

“S-Sansa…mmm...dizzy…” Sloppily, his hand cupped her breast. Sought the milky, pink-teat. Connected his lips—and sucked. Pulled the milk, hungrily into his rumbling stomach. Growled, deep in his throat as he began to wash her skin with a rag. Rinsing clean the blood—and tainted, bits that sullied her. All whilst he suckled.

His spare hand wound down. Circled around her sensitive-pearl. Pressed, pinched, rolled the nub. Until she shrieked. Then moaned.

“R-Reek…” Her voice was low—almost dreamlike.

“You like it…when…I…mmm…tease you…? Maybe…leave you…hungry, wanting…like you…left me…” His words fell, his stutter gone. He felt loose. Greasy. The combative need to have—take—consumed all else.

“T-Theon?” She asked. Let the word hang in the air.

“Mmm…Still…Reek…What? Can I not…want my wife…like they do? Want to...mark you…” Suddenly, feeling bold, Reek dared to bite her neck. Felt his remaining teeth, sink into the swell of her neck. Heard her moans permeate the air. Roughly, he spread her thighs. Tired of touching—and began to rut. Yanked her tight against him. Sighed with loose heat, burning his lower belly, as he did.

“Reek!” Her fingers tethered into his hair. All the horniness that burned in him, took root. He cared little for bathwater. For the heat. He wanted the bed back. The softness of the furs. With strain (he could barely feel) he hoisted her out of the water. Carried her back to the bed.

Crawling on top of it, soaked. Wet. He attacked her lips with his own. Spread her wide—and rutted. Her moans fused with his. Her breath forced against his lips, in-between loud noises from her throat. Her fingers dug into his back, but he was damned if he could feel the sting.

He latched hold of her teat, sucked her again. Moaned with abandon—until the swells of release fluttered through his belly. Until he could not see anything, but haze and stars.

It felt good; to be free. He felt completely free of caring. Of humility.

Of every bad thing that happened to him.

And when blackness called for him—he did not feel fear; but peace. As he fell into the arms of the woman he loved.


	32. Part 32; To Reemerge into Nothingness.

**_Part 32; To Reemerge into Nothingness._ **

* * *

 

> _I get so jealous because I know_
> 
> _How easily replaceable I am._
> 
> _I’m nothing special._

* * *

 

**_Sansa_ **

Those needful actions were the last thing the scarlet-haired female had expected. Especially out of Reek. He was always so timid.

So needy—but afraid of that need.

Heedful of hiding the true being underneath the façade of scared, trembling limbs. She was well-aware that he harbored the intent for darkness. Buried somewhere underneath all that fear.

But to feel it emerge. Take control.

It shocked her.

And she loved it. Through that lovely, warmth, and haze. It felt so indescribably good, to merely submit—to give in to all that Reek was.

After the screams of their enemies. Blood, sweat, and tears, leeched from those evil souls, most of the day, Sansa felt pride in the sense that she had Reek all to herself.

And as her hazy; blurred mind came full-circle, the very last thought she had, before sleep came to call, was that, she loved Reek—more than anyone.

 

* * *

 

 

**_Reek_ **

 

Consciousness.

The first vague thought that came to mind, as his eyes peered open. Dull, morning light shone in through a crack in the curtains. Warm-heat pressed in on him, made him feel safe. Sound.

Subconsciously, Reek arched his left arm over her side. Coiled around her waist, he instinctively, pulled her in.

He still felt a buzz from the Poppy, and this time, that buzz made him feel good.

Not bad.

Images from the night before ran rampant in his memory banks. He remembered all of it. Slowly, Reek weaved through the tangled web of haze. Clung tight to every detail. He wanted the memories to stick with him. He had so few that were good, and purely his. Not a split memory from another time. As someone else.

His mind wandered to Theon. Wondered where his other personality was.

And then—he felt it.

The prying. Poking—searing pain—right in his temple.

Theon was near to the front of his cortex. Right in view—one more push—and Reek trembled in fear. He did not want to leave his safety net. He fought to stay.

He wanted to whisper ‘Good Morning’ to his beloved. He wanted to kiss her again.

So many elusive wants soared in his mind.

But he was ripped back.

Into darkness.

 

 

* * *

 

**_Theon_ **

 

Awareness came to him.

Light. Love. Memories.

Then—Realization dawned.

Theon jerked upright, tore his arm from around Sansa’s middle. He consciously felt the jolt from her body as he surged her into wakefulness, in the process.

He remembered the pull of hands on his flesh. The sound of his own skin tearing from the force of that man’s thick, cock. His own screams of agony.

Theon shuddered. Shivered in the chill of Sansa’s bedchambers.

He had wanted a bit of freedom. That was all, just a tad bit of leeway, to explore, and potentially, find a life away from these castle walls. He recognized the foolishness of his own choice now. So foolish.

“Reek? Are you okay?” Sleepy-eyed, Sansa rubbed at her eyes, peering at him. “Do you need the chamber pot?”

Reek?

How long had he been gone? Theon only remembered willing himself to depart. He could not remember the aftermath. Not all at once; not with his head so foggy.

Still, he recalled his own selfishness, and betrayal of his marital vows. How could Sansa ever forgive him for it?

The kisses he shared with another woman. The shameful way she tricked him, and gathered men to attack him, whilst he was left incapacitated. How could he ever trust anyone, ever again?

Sansa reached for him, but he jerked off the bed. Stood, winced from the dire sweep of pain that surged straight up his spine.

His face felt like it was on his fire. Bruised as it was. And his skin felt flayed. Worse than when Ramsay had a go at Reek. Worse, than anything he had ever experienced before. Aside from, (perhaps) the removal of his lower parts.

Sansa was on her feet in a flash. Hands reaching up to cup his cheeks, before he could prevent her. “You are okay. You are safe. You are with me, remember? Do not be afraid, Sweet boy.”

He whimpered, instinctually. Craved the kind touch after so much bad.

But he did not deserve it.

Gathering his bearings, he lifted his hands to her wrists, pulling them down.

“I am not, Reek. I am Theon.” Mournful, emerald-eyes, met sapphire.

And recognition lit up, Sansa’s eyes. He could see the cogs of her innermost, mind, turning as she attempted to decode which ‘Theon’ was gazing back at her.

“You were gone for a long time.” Her tone, changed. He almost could feel the hesitance in it; in **her**. There was an iciness in her voice. All of the compassion he felt a moment before, dwindled away.

Did she know what he had done? Had Reek told her?

Currently, his focus was inconclusive. The drug felt like it was still imposing on his mind. Despite her insistence that he had been ‘gone’ for a long time.

He could not help but to wonder, how long, exactly, was ‘long’?

Something in the way she looked at him, made him feel uneasy. He was used to her gentle touches, the encouragement, and compassionate thrall that engulfed Sansa’s personality. Even when they fought, he knew he could come back. That everything would be alright, if he apologized, and kissed her.

This time—things felt different.

He remembered his last thoughts. Pinned under those rough, calloused hands. Scrapes of his own nails as they uselessly, met the sheets of the whore’s uncomfortable, pallet. He had been helpless. Held. Torn. Raped.

If he closed his eyes—he could still feel it.

The way Sansa regarded him, with unreadable-eyes, Theon knew, with gut-wrenching, horror that she was well-aware of what had transpired that night. How could he ever look her in the eyes, and feel anything, but despise, again? He despised himself.

He was unclean.

And he remembered their fight. The last time they spoke, he promised it would be the last for a while. He vowed only to come to her, if his other personalities were near the surface. Did she really love Reek more?

Based on the soft way she had spoken when she thought he was Reek; he had his answer. Plain and simple.

But it still stung, no less to hold that knowledge.

Theon closed his eyes, and swallowed a thickness in his throat.

He remembered that one of his last thoughts, was that he wanted to find comfort in Sansa’s arms. He had just wanted her. No matter the consequences. They could be no worse than what came from outside these walls.

“How long?” He was still attempting to process his complex emotions. In the interim, he could feel Reek just at the back of his mind. Pleading for re-entry into the forefront. Theon was not ready to let go. Not until he knew what had happened, then he would give in.

He no longer deserved to be the ‘protector’ of this body, not after what he did.

“A few days.” She admitted.

His stomach churned, and he gave a slight, nod. His eyes downcast, and his jaw twitched.

He reached up, as though to touch her—and then thought better of it. He deserved no comfort. Not after, all he did. He bit back, bile in his throat.

“I can bring Reek back. He wants to come back.” His voice was fragile, tired. He did not know what he expected his reemergence to feel like, but this was far from it.

“Wait.” Sansa’s voice transcended his thoughts, she initiated the contact, this time. A subtle touch to his cheek. “Reek could not tell me why you were found outside a brothel…what were you doing there, Theon?”

His skin crawled. Reek had not known? Usually their memories were fluid, easy to access between personalities. Why had Reek not just sought out the memories for himself? Told Sansa the truth of it? Theon wanted to feel like a man again. Just an ordinary man.

He did not want her to know the truth. Not especially, with the way she already viewed him. Her eyes hollow, dark pools, toward him. He could imagine the disgusted way she would view him, if she knew his truth. He allowed his guard to fall for a pretty, young thing. Let his manly urges stipulate his actions. Rather than listen to his instincts. He wanted to feel loved.

His jaw set. Eyes shifted in embarrassment. “I do not wish to speak about it.” He admitted. He remembered the way that brothel, whore had gawked at him when she felt his lack of manhood. Her confusion, then the flicker of disgust on her face. Sansa never gave him that look. Not for that reason, anyway.

“Were you there to seek pleasure with a whore?” Undeterred, Sansa pressed him. There was no sense of care, nor compassion in her eyes.

He flinched. He deserved nothing from her.

A tear leaked down his cheek. He had thrown away the only good thing that came from what Ramsay did to this body.

Sansa.

She was light. Pure. Beauty.

She was everything, and he let his selfishness, and pride, drive her away.

“No…Not at first, I only…I wanted a place to sleep…” She deserved to know. Even if it destroyed whatever trust they had between them, through all these months. “I was recognized in the village. No one would offer me a room. So, I went into the brothel. For warmth, and a bit of food. The whore approached me, and I…I offered her a coin.” He could not look at Sansa. Not as he spoke the words.

“She kissed me, but when she felt what I had between my thighs…” He could not finish the statement. His stomach churned.

Sansa’s eyes were still unreadable. He could not tell what she was thinking. But he could imagine.

“She was repulsed by you.” Sansa, spoke the words he could not. He flinched away from the truth.

“I just wanted to be held. That was all I wanted. And she offered me a drink. Slipped me milk of the poppy. When I woke up…” Hazy recollection of the men that occupied the tiny, room came to mind. Ale on their breath. Repulsive skin on his skin.

He wanted to burn the memory permanently from his mind.

“You could have come home.” Sansa’s tone was still laced with ice.

“I…I know…” And he had. He just could not face the consequences of their fight. He had not wanted to.

“So why didn’t you?” She pried.

“I saw the way you looked at Reek…at Theon…I could not bear to come back. Not knowing you loved them more. I wanted to experience the world on my own. Just for a little while.” He felt foolish. So foolish.

“Was it everything you hoped it would be?” Her words bit at him. His head hung in shame.

“I regret it, Sansa. All of it.” He teared up. Worthlessness, fused into his bones.

“As you should.” He felt the stab in his belly, at her bitter words. “You told me you were the protector of this body. That you were here to protect Reek, and Theon. Was that all just a lie?” She inquired. Pushed.

Horrified, Theon looked up. “N-No, of course not—”

“Then why did you leave when it was time for you to protect them? Why did you leave Reek to be raped, and brutalized?” She took a breath. “You told me that Reek could not handle rutting with me in the courtyard, because it would break him. Yet, you were fine with letting him bear the brunt of being raped, while drugged? The instant you had to be a true protector for Reek, and Theon—you fled. Like a coward!” Accusations flew at him, and he could not deny them.

Not one.

The contempt he saw, reflected back at him in her gaze, made him want to die.

He hated himself.

Tears fell, reflexively. “I just wanted the pain to stop…”

“Some protector you are.” She snapped at him. Aggravation clear in her gaze.

“Sansa—”

“Tell me, why did you deserve to cower, while Reek took the brunt of the pain? Did you even feel a portion of it? What was done? What you brought upon your body?”

Theon broke into sobs. He could not help the rush of emotion that overcame him. He felt small. So small. He could feel the pain right now. Perhaps not the brunt of it, but enough to make him want to leave again. Depart.

“I have always hurt…This body hurts all the t-time…” He spoke in-between heart-wrenching sobs.

“Not like that.” Sansa insisted, and it was true.

“No…not like that…” He agreed. Defeat was plain in his eyes. He felt broken.

“You come back now, Theon. Why now?” She pried. “Because the pain is manageable? Why should I offer you comfort now? Why should I even trust you?”

Her words cut him to the bone.

“I do not know…” What else could he say?

He could never atone for what he had done. Never.

“I loved you, Theon…despite what you believed, I did love you.”

He glanced up as he heard those words. Loved. She no longer loved him? Was incapable of it? His heart sank.

“Loved…?”

She bit back tears of her own.

“You are a part of my husband…but I do not know how to love you, now. How can I love someone, I no longer trust?”

His heart broke apart. He felt gutted. He wanted to flee—but fleeing would only cement what she already believed of him. That he was a coward.

“We are still…married…” The broken pieces of his heart, ached.

“I married, Theon. You are not Theon. Just a pretender. A fraction of the man I love. A piece of his past.” Her voice softened, though her words still stung.

He was worthless, in her eyes. He ruined everything.

He lowered to the stone. Unable to support himself on his feet. He felt the cold, hard, surface, and the sting from his rear-end as he touched the ground. His body was in such pain. Even now. And he felt scared, lonely. Tired. So tired.

Why had he emerged? He no longer felt Reek, attempting to push through. It was just him. Him and her. He sobbed into his hands, curled up like a child. This was the worst he ever felt. The most hopeless, bleak.

He could feel her eyes on him. Then, felt her kneel down to the stone. Settle alongside of him. But she made no move to touch him.

“I t-thought of you…I regretted everything…including the way I left. I thought they would kill me…I wanted to die. I wanted to die, before it happened again…” He remembered the last thought he had. He thought the tear of his sphincter was what it felt like to die. It hurt more than he could describe. His skin was on fire. Fire and pain. Haze.

“I thought I was d-dead…I thought it was r-release into d-death…I did not know R-Reek would e-emerge. I d-did not know…” He did not know why he proceeded to sob to her. Plead to her, like a child would. He knew it would do him no good.

What good could possibly come of this now?

“They tore off my c-clothes…Told me I deserved it, that I killed their loved ones…” If he had—he could not remember. Those days from when he took Winterfell—he longed to forget.

“I am s-sorry, S-Sansa…I should have e-endured it…I should have s-stayed…I deserved to feel a-all of it.” He felt his mind break apart. His lungs constricted with the pain of taking in air. He was such a coward. Worthless. A disgrace.

“Theon…” Her voice was softer, tone less harsh. But still, he deserved her ire.

“I am n-not a man…n-never deserved you…nor how g-good it made me feel to have y-you.” He felt like ripping himself to shreds. He felt like dying. He never wanted to feel again. Not anything. Ever again.

He could not help his stuttering, his trembling. She broke him (whatever was left of him) the rest of the way open. He hyperventilated, until his airway felt constricted. Until he could no longer gasp in air. And the world went black. He hoped this time—it was forever.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so sorry for the long hiatus I have taken from writing these two! I have been relaxing, and taking a bit of a break from writing. I have never written so much in such a short span of time before! It was very taxing on my mind! Lol! I promise to update as much as I can, as soon as I can!


	33. Part 33; To Splinter a Soul.

**_Part 33; To Splinter a Soul._ **

****

* * *

 

> _Memories are what warm you_
> 
> _Up from the inside_
> 
> _But they’re also what_
> 
> _Tear you apart._

* * *

 

**_Sansa_ **

Darkness consumed her. Like a leech, feeding from blood. It submerged around the core of her heart. Tainted her for the kindness she regarded toward Reek. She did not feel the same for Theon. Not anymore.

Love had vanquished from her heart. When she heard those men speak. When she became aware of who they were. And why they had attacked the man she loved. She understood, the full extent of what had been forced upon Reek.

Innocent. Sweet. Tender—Reek.

How could Theon have allowed it? Justified it?

She could wrap her mind around a lot of fucked up things. Just not this one.

To know that Theon had kissed a whore—made her ill.

She could picture his hands on that woman, hovering in a cell, underground. His tongue down her throat. His hands on her bodice. That thought alone, angered her. And to know that his own betrayal had led to Reek’s brutalization? Well, that only made her angrier.

In comparison, Reek would never have even, thought, of touching another woman. Never have left her. Theon (the man who bound their wrists together in the sight of the old Weirwood) also would never have strayed from her. Never.

But Theon of old.

Theon from her childhood—he would have thought nothing of betrayal. That is the Theon that ripped her home away from Bran and Rickon. A man that murdered innocent farm boys, and strung them up on the walls for all to witness.

She was not even remotely finished with him.

Her contempt burned her deep inside. And yet—yet…

He slipped into unconsciousness. He escaped—again.

She felt him slump against her shoulder. His skin was hot to the touch. His tears staining his cheeks. She felt so little sympathy for this part of Theon. The part that hurt her, once. That was rough. Reveled in his roughness.

She would never forget the way he woke her. Shocked her with roughness—like Ramsay used to do. Then blamed her when she regarded him with mistrust. She trusted no other man. Only Theon. But…never this piece of him. Never the ‘Protector’ as he called himself.

With a sigh, Sansa stood. Drew Theon up, and onto the nearby settee. Then, waited.

She was determined to speak with him again. Determined to make him understand that all the things he did—were not alright.

In her mind, he deserved to hurt—as much as any of those men in the dungeon.

For all of his crimes.

 

 

* * *

 

**_Theon_ **

 

Disappointment shone in Emerald-optics as the haze cleared from his vision. This was not death. Death would not lead him back to these chambers. To the crackle of the hearth, and the conflicted eyes of his wife. Not back to where he felt most lost.

Unless—this was hell.

“Sansa…” Tears had dried on his cheeks, hollow, emptiness was built into his mind. Now—there was hatred. For himself. For this body. For everything that ever happened to him.

Why had Reek not emerged? Where was Reek?

“Theon.” Iciness had returned to Sansa’s tone.

Suddenly, he became aware of a pinch to his skin. Sansa’s hand was on his arm. Holding the skin tightly. To wake him?

He flinched, at the rough touch.

“You do not get to run away, this time. Do you understand?”

He cowered. His skin was flushed with heat, and tears rolled down his cheeks. He was silent.

“Do you, understand?” She spoke slower, enunciating every word, in slowness.

“Please…Sansa…I do not wish to speak anymore…” He felt drained, his skin still a living hell of bruises, burns, and pain.

Her hand brushed over his still-bare skin, pinched his nipple. Hard enough to make him cry out. He felt an explosion of fire, there.

“You have caused so much pain. Do you realize just how much, Protector?” He could hear the taunt in her voice. Knew that she used the name to make him feel small. And it worked.

He was no protector. Not anymore.

He jerked away from her pinch. Tears forced down his cheeks. “You told me once you do not have a name. That your name is whatever I make of it. So, you will not be, Theon. Theon is the man I love. You are **not** , Theon. Do you know what I did to the men that hurt, Reek? Do you, Protector?”

His blood chilled to ice. He turned his eyes from her. Could not look at her. He did not want to. Could not see the ice in her veins. In her tone. She despised him. She took away his name. Like Ramsay. Did it even matter, anymore?

He searched for Reek’s memories—for the memories of these past days. But they were locked. Kept away from him. He sought—but found no answers.

“No.” He admitted.

“I cut off their cocks. Then, I burned them, the same way they burned, Reek. And I am keeping them tied up to saltires. Just the same as Ramsay kept Reek. I am making them pay for their crimes. Blood for blood.”

He shuddered.

“If I could do those things to you, without hurting Theon, and Reek—I would. You are the true monster. Are you not? Not just because you betrayed our marriage with a whore, but because you murdered two innocent farm boys. And you hurt me as a child. Made me feel ashamed of what I felt for you. Made a game, twisted. And harmful.” She pinched him again—and he cried.

Only able to think of those two, farm boys. His mind screamed at him, for his wrong-doing. He remembered the screams of the farmer’s wife. If he dug deep enough, he could remember the scent of her skin on his skin, when he pushed inside of her. Rutted—came. She had been kind. With kind eyes, soft hands. She had kissed his forehead, and told him, it was okay to have needs. She had been his first. His first woman. She had told him to take as he needed. He had been scared—so far from home. And she had been warm, kindness. She made him the man he was—guided him—toward his frequenting of the brothels.

He remembered her face—when he ordered her killed. After, she watched the two boys she birthed into this world, perish, at his hand.

“I would deserve them…” Faintly, he whispered.

“Only a monster, could kill a child. Let alone, two.” Her breath tickled his skin. Warm-fingers, clenched, tight to his cheeks.

His lip quivered, “I am a monster…” He admitted, silent tears leaving tracks down either cheek.

If he dug deep enough, he could still feel the youngest boy. Billy. Curled around his leg when he visited. Felt the sting of those kind-eyes as she admitted, Billy was his kin.

He swallowed the lump in his throat. Felt his skin burn.

“Billy was my son.” He could not look her in the eyes. “My bastard.”

He heard her breath hitch.

When he remembered the warmth of Sansa underneath him. Felt the touch of her skin. The warmth of her lips—and the spread of her thighs—he felt the heat pulsing in his lower-belly. He recalled the cruel, unkind things he spoke to her. Eluded to her being no more than a whore. Stole away a little girl’s confidence. And light. Ripped a life from three bodies. He was the definition—of a monster.

“You murdered your own child?” Her teeth clenched.

“And I kissed you, Sansa. Stole away what made you, happy. I deserved what those men did to this body. It should have been me…I should have s-stayed.” His voice cracked. Broke.

He could see the boiling hatred in her eyes. The sear of her ire. Her eyes were past unreadable—into dangerous territory.

 

* * *

 

 

**_Sansa_ **

 

She wanted him to hurt.

It was all she could think—feel.

She wanted him to burn; like his son burned.

How many other bastard children did he have? She could not ponder an answer. He had been between so many women’s thighs. There could be many. She doubted there were none.

She never wanted to feel this part of Theon’s hands on her again. Never wanted him to feel good. Or happy. He did not deserve to.

She never wanted him to feel love—comfort—light.

She wanted his suffering.

She might not be able to torture his body…but his mind?

“How did it feel when you came into awareness, and found your cock gone?” Her tone was rough, dark. Her hand reached down. Gripped his stub, roughly—in her fingers. Squeezed until he choked out a sob. A tiny bit of wetness, trickled out. Barely enough to wet two fingers—but enough. Enough to chasten him. She knew from Reek’s own lips that a little bit would spill out unabated from time to time.

He turned red.

“How did it feel knowing you would never be a proper man, again? Hm? That you would have to piss like a girl. Squat like one to relieve yourself. Leak, without warning?” She held up her fingers, let him see the wetness.

 

 

* * *

 

**_Theon_ **

 

He could hear the danger in her tone. Every instinct in his body told him to depart. Stand from the settee—leave into the black void. But—he was trapped. Frozen in time. Rooted to the spot, in a mixture of fear, self-hatred, and defeat.

Her words struck him—deep in his center. He wanted to turn himself inside-out. To disappear into the disgrace of his past. Especially when he felt her squeeze him. When he grappled for control. Felt the leak from his useless stub. He burned with flames against his cheeks. Felt the downpour of tears. Choked on sobs. He just wanted to disappear. He wanted to go far away.

Far away—someplace safe. Warm. Good.

He was a pretender. A liar. A scoundrel. Murderer.

He was disgusting.

“I w-wanted to d-die…” He admitted. He still did.

All of his personalities had when they recognized the loss of their most prized possession.

Reek was born that day. When he could not take the pain any longer. When he shoved Reek forward. Pieced that broken thing together, and made it suffer the brunt of this…this humiliation. This knowledge. It was his first failure as a protector. His very first.

Not his last.

“Reek was never a hound. No. The hound is you, Protector. Murderer. You are the hound. Ramsay took your cock. He did that, so he could fuck you. Like a girl. Like a hound. Like the stain you are. And you made Reek endure that, too. You should have been the one that cowered in that filthy hay, and pissed yourself. It should have been **you**.”

Drool spilled from his lips. Snot from his nose. As his psyche began to break apart. He felt it. He felt his need to die. His need to stop, existing.

“I…I’m s-sorry…”

“You should be, sorry. You should. And Ramsay tried to make you sorry, didn’t he? But you escaped. Sure, you have the memories that Reek lived through. But you never experienced any of that shame, or pain for yourself. Only little flickers of it. Memories. And I tried to make you feel better about it. About your little stub.” She pinched him again. He jerked. “I should never have done that. You still try to rut like an Iron-born. You still try to be rough, and hurt me. Like Ramsay. Like every other man.” He cowered, and cringed.

“How does it feel to know you will never feel a woman’s cunt again? That, you will never father more bastards that you can kill at your whim? Your cock meant so much to you, didn’t it?” She breathed—he did not move. “Tell me, how did it feel when that whore stuck her hand down your breeches? When she felt your little stub, and felt repulsion toward you? Did it cement in your mind that you shall never be a full man again? Did it?”

He nodded. He could only nod. He was so wracked with guilt. And shame. Mortification did not begin to describe what his heart felt, right now.

Between beats.

Psychologically—he was losing himself. His identity. His mind. It was tearing away. He was gibbering, in little noises against the settee. Drooling on the fabric as he writhed against her touch.

“I never loved you. Not, really. You were right when you insisted, I only loved, Theon and Reek. They suffer so that you can be strong, and cocky. Well, no more. You will never be cocky again. Do you hear me? I never want to see you smile again. Whenever you see a woman, you will remember that you have no cock. No reason to even look at one in the first place. And you will never take from my body again. Understand? Your stub will never know relief again. Not from me, or anyone else. You deserve to suffer, and until you have suffered enough, I will keep summoning you. And you had better come, when I call. And, leave Reek and Theon out of this. I do not want them to ever know. Understand? This is your burden to bear. Yours alone. Not theirs. You murdered your own child. Their child, too. You alone deserve this fate.”

He felt the last of his light fade. Any hope that he could find forgiveness in this life—fade.

He deserved to suffer. He deserved this humiliation. This pain. He imagined a woman’s touch—remembered the way that whore had retracted from him. Remembered the humiliation of waking in his own spilled urine. Remembered the pain of Ramsay’s first cut to his phallus. Just before Reek was born.

He remembered the thrill of loving Sansa. The pain of losing her.

This he would always remember. Always.

He remembered the pride; Sansa had restored to him. Such pride. And purpose. Now—all of that pride was gone. Shredded apart. The seven heavens did not exist, but the seven hells did. He believed that now. He believed. This was hell.

He was in hell.

Sansa dragged him down there. Beat him down there. Ramsay would come soon. He feared that vile monster’s touch above all others. He would come for certain. To finish what he started. Finish the trauma. Pain. Spiteful lusts he besought from this body. Ramsay would shave Reek. Call him a woman. Sometimes, kiss and touch him to release. It couldn’t be worse than that.

Nothing could.

Only this.

He remembered his horniness the day he tore apart Sansa’s confidence. Could almost feel the throb of his vacant manhood. Almost—

Release was impossible now. But his mind was split into searing pain. Suddenly—that pain broke.

And light—memories—and darkness came apart. Screamed in his mind. Seared him.

Synapses in his brain began to misfire. Clashing against one another. Breaking apart blood vessels. Until he felt he might die from the pain there. He screamed out, held his head. And thoughts no longer worked. Pieces. Flashes. Spasms. Nothing…worked…

 

 

* * *

 

**_Sansa_ **

 

All the sudden, Sansa could see the suffering was at its peak. He was in pain. Not physical. But mental anguish. She found a way to only climb underneath this ‘Protector’s’ skin. To debase him into humility. Morph him into what he should have always been. It felt good. Like a rush of adrenaline was gripping her heart. Like when she sliced off those men’s cocks.

The rush was indescribable.

To murder a little boy? His son?  That struck a chord in her heart.

She knew how Reek wanted to be a Father; how much Theon wanted to be a father. Biologically.

And to know that this rogue piece of them had forever stolen that chance away?

Knowing what it was like to be a mother now—she could find no love in her heart for this piece of Theon. She never would again. And she meant that.

She meant it in every fiber of her being.

But then…

She witnessed an attack. It was more than he could take—she pushed too far. And she came into awareness of that, far too late.

Blood streamed from his nose. She watched in horror as he grabbed at his head. Spasmed, with his eyes rolled back in his skull.

And with wide, frightened eyes she held him down.

“T-Theon?” She let the name slip in her fear. Felt her stomach churn and clench. But he was still spasming. Unresponsive. Blood streaming from his nostrils. Urine flooding the settee, and skin pale as clouds.

“Theon!” She screamed using a discarded gown nearby, she shoved it underneath his nostrils. Attempted to mop up the blood, but he was thrashing too badly. He began to choke. Cough. Blood spit down onto the stone, as she turned him upon his side. And her heart clenched with fear.

She did this…what if he died? What if Reek, or Theon were hurt? She did this…

It was all she could think as she wailed at the top of her lungs. Heard the burst of doors open. Guards drew her away in an attempt to tend to Theon’s thrashing form. Jon swept her into his arms. Despite her nudity—and fear clenched her frame.

“Theon! Theon!” She kept yelling his name. Over and over as the thrashing continued. And the blood dribbled out of him.

Before it was over, he made a god-awful noise—then went limp.

All while Sansa looked on, in horror. Somehow, a robe was coiled around her bodice. But she did not feel it. Not until she went to clutch at her heart, and felt fabric underneath her fingers, rather than skin.

Jon still held her. Theon was still unconscious. And she was still to blame.

Her fault…this was all her fault.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oooops I think she broke him. O__O


	34. Part 34; To Rupture a Psyche.

**_Part 34; To Rupture a Psyche._ **

****

* * *

 

> _La douleur exquise;_
> 
> _The heart-wrenching pain of_
> 
> _Wanting the affection of someone_
> 
> _Unattainable._

* * *

 

**_Reek_ **

Blinding.

Fractured.

Pain.

Why was there pain?

Such pain? Flashes.

Imposed from the blackness.

Screams. Sansa.

 

* * *

 

 

**_Theon_ **

 

What was happening? What was this?

Memories. Fractured. Together.

Hurt.

Pain.

Agony.

 

 

* * *

 

**_Protector_ **

 

It would not stop.

It would not stop….

 

 

* * *

 

**_Sansa_ **

 

His eyes would open. She could see them. Sometimes, they moved.

Sometimes—he jerked.

But he never spoke. Never.

Then, his eyes would close, and he would not awaken again, for hours.

The Maester told her that he had a seizure. Some form of mental breakdown that resulted in a seizure. She had not told a soul (even the Maester) about what triggered this breakdown. It left his mind squandered. Weak.

The Maester dosed him with Milk of the Poppy, due to his apparent pain. He would whimper, sometimes. Make little noises. And tears would fall.

The Maester feared the worst, a brain hemorrhage. Without opening up the skull, there was no way to know for certain. And to open up his skull, would mean to kill him.

So, she hovered at his bedside—held his hand.

And prayed to the old Gods to forgive her, for her sins.

She never returned to the men in the dungeons. Told the guards to take over in their torture—and deaths. She would never go down that path again.

Never.

That path, may have cost her the man she loved. Her own spiteful nature hurt Theon, and Reek.

Her inability to forgive a broken spirit, caused this. What had he done to himself, because of what she had said? Done? The Maester told her that even if he were to awaken (truly awaken) that he might never be the same.

He might even have lost one, or more of his personalities. Or his memories.

What if he could not remember her when he woke up?

She did this.

And it was all her fault.

She settled at his bedside, listened to the rise and fall of his breathing. Held his hand. Watched as his eyelids flickered—and eyes opened. And he stared—but made no motion to indicate awareness. Not a squeeze to her hand, or a smile from his lips. Nothing.

Blankness.

Always that.

She would bring Little Robb to him, settle the babe on his chest, for comfort. Let him feel the soft touch, and jitter of a baby’s laugh. Of Little Robb’s hands.

He would touch in a confused manner, at Theon’s face. Then smile, in recognition, and laugh.

Sansa always felt a grip in her heart when she saw Little Robb’s reactions.

Within a week—she missed Theon, Reek—even the protective side of him. She missed him, as a whole. Within a month, she would have given her life to reunite his mind with his body.

And within three months—that hope dwindled.

She brought Robb more, and more. When he learned to crawl. He would crawl over the blankets. Nuzzle close to Theon, and fall asleep. He preferred his father’s warmth. Sometimes, Sansa believed, even Little Robb knew that she had let an iciness engulf her heart. That she had helped to kill a part of herself that morning. She had not meant to destroy his mind. Only wound him a little.

Robb was growing every single day. His first words came, swiftly. ‘Dada’ and ‘Mama’ emerged from his lips. She made certain he understood who Theon was. Prayed he understood that he would have embraced Little Robb, if he could.

Robb learned to walk a few months after he crawled. Around the time Jon’s son was born. Alren. The pinkness of a newborn made Sansa turn with upset, in recollection of what she could never have with Theon. A child. Such a silly folly, considering he might never awaken at all.

But one that wounded her still.

Jon would visit Theon’s bedside. Make certain she had a meal, even if her stomach was hollow with emptiness—he forced her.

She would tend him in silence, feed him meals, when his eyes were open. Reflexively—he would swallow. She would change his diapers, the same as she did for Little Robb. She never let anyone else, aside from the Maester, touch him.

She whispered apologies, every night into his ear, as he slept. Pleaded for him to return to her. Any of him. All of him. Whatever remained.

She would kiss his cheek. Offer him soft touch, to account for all the bad things she said that day. She would even **touch** him. When she changed him, he would pulse whenever she wiped against his part. And make little noises. The Maester told her that she should offer him as much familiarity as she could. In order to coax him back. So, she did. She touched him. Until he whimpered, shivered, spent against her fingers. His body still worked. But his mind refused.

She would open the curtains. Let in the light, for him to see. Winter snow, fell just outside. Coated the ground, offered cold, and chill. She would speak to him of the last winter she remembered. The one when she was a child. And hold his hand, all the while.

By the time Robb could walk, and speak babbled words—everyone else within Winterfell, had lost hope. But Sansa didn’t.

She never would.

 

 

* * *

 

 

* * *

****

**_Four years Later_ **

 

Spring livened the ground. Snow melted into pools down in the courtyard. Warm-weathered birds returned from their journey to the south to ride out the Winter freeze. Colors budded on the trees, and bees pollinated flowers, their wings buzzing benevolently.

Long, winding, scarlet tresses of hair, were pulled up unceremoniously into a current, Northern-style atop her head. Sapphire-blue eyes, though deep—and beautiful, had long since lost all light. The glow that once was spoken of, in the Northern beauty dwindled to nothingness. So rarely, did those thin lips draw into a smile.

Only for Robb.

Stiffly, Sansa extended her hand down to Robb, felt tiny fingers latch on to hers.

Sometimes, she could hardly believe herself, how her son had grown.

He was strong. Yet, kind. With bright, shinning blue-eyes. And skin that glistened, like the sun, with pinkness. His auburn-curls piled atop his head, gave his face a spritely shape that reminded her so deeply of Robb—it hurt.

No trace of Ramsay existed in his bright little soul. She had never so much as seen him kill an ant. He regarded life, with great care. For his last name-day, Sansa purchased him a horse of his own. A stead, with a beautiful coat of chestnut-brown. And a white-diamond on her forehead.

She remembered when her father had purchased Robb his first horse, he had taken such proper care of the creature. Named him, Midnight. Owing to his black coat.

Not even her brother had taken such care of his horse, not like Little Robb.

They had just come from the stables. He had tended to his horse’s mane, mucked the stall, and spoken to her, all the while.

The long winter had finally come to an end. Dwindled like the sun, and Little Robb would finally know a spring, that would lead into a (hopefully) equally, long summer.

“Can we see, Papa, now?” Sansa felt her heart constrict in her chest.

Even the mention of Theon made her sick with dread. These days, she could barely look upon him, without the express, recollection of what she had said and done to him, that night.

She was no longer that woman. That girl. She had been young. She no longer felt young, but aged. Tired. And lonely.

Jon had attempted to insist that she denounce her marriage to Theon (being that he was barely alive) and marry anew. Always with the hope that she would agree.

She never did.

Even if she could have found it in her heart to love another, she knew that she did not deserve to. Not after the state she left him in. Like a vegetable. He was mindless, ate food, had normal bodily functions, but never spoke. Never moved.

“Of course, we can.” But still, Sansa wanted Little Robb to know his father, any way that he could. Even if it was just through stories from her memories of him. And visitations to his bedside.

Little Robb was beloved in the castle. Everyone he came into contact with, loved him. Even Theon seemed a tad-bit brighter, whenever he was in the room.

She guided her son, through the halls. He smiled, and waved at all those that passed, made a point of learning names, and faces. He was ever the curious one. Always so filled with spirit, and adventure. If he picked up anything from his lineage with Ramsay, it was his need to know things. Curiosity.

In his own contorted way, Ramsay had been curious. With an expansive need to know things. But he used his curiosity as a reason to torture. Whilst, Robb used his to grasp the world around him. Like a cat, he searched for answers.

“Do you think Papa will wake up, soon, Mum?” Those curious, almost-penetrative blue-eyes cut her to the quick. He asked so often. He regarded his father with hope, and longing. He wanted to know him so badly, it stung.

“I do not know.” It was the same unsatisfactory, answer as she gave every time he asked. And as always, he frowned, then lowered his gaze to the stone.

“Maybe if I stay near him, he will wake up. Doesn’t he want to know me, Mum? I do not understand why he sleeps all the time.”

She bit back tears, “It is not your fault, hey—” She stopped him in his tracks. And turned him to face her. Knelt down to his level. “You understand that, don’t you? Your Father loves you, with everything inside of him. He loves you so much. Of course, he wants to know you. Why would you even think that he wouldn’t? Hm?”

She searched his eyes, and could tell they were troubled. A flicker lingered in them. Small, barely prevalent. But a mother could always tell.

Robb avoided her eyes, suddenly interested in the cracks of the stone.

“Robb?” She pried.

“I heard a few of the maids whispering…They said that he isn’t my real father…that I was fathered by a monster, and that…” He swallowed thick in his throat. Tears rimmed his eyes.

She had promised herself—and Theon—Robb would never know about Ramsay. She would have to have a severe talk with the members of the castle staff.

“What? What else did they say?” Tensely, she kept a firm grip on his arms. Unprepared to have this conversation with him today. (Or any day for that matter.)

“They said that my real father mutilated Papa…that…that Papa cannot have children of his own.” Sansa wiped her son’s tears. Felt the wetness on her fingers, and brushed them, subtly on her dress.

She knew that a lie would not erase this. If he ever did come to hear the truth of it, again. He might never forgive her for lying. So, she told the truth.

“Theon was there when you were born, Robb. He held you when you were still a babe, and he loved you, then. They were right. Theon cannot father a child, not anymore. And your real father…he was a monster, but I never want you to think that you are not loved, because of him. You are not, Ramsay. Ramsay was a twisted man. He hurt me, and Papa. Badly.” She could see the pain, contorted on Robb’s face. See the tears falling faster, and more potently. But he stayed, standing. Bravely, sought out her eyes, to witness the truth of her words in them.

“Hurt you…how?” Robb questioned. “Is he the reason for…for the scars?”

Sansa chewed on her lower pleat. Uncertain if she should tell her young son, any details. But she also knew his curiosity would have him asking everyone else, if she did not. He already knew of the scars that donned her flesh.

So, she tugged over the neckline of her dress. And let him see one, in the daylight. A long-thin, scar that Ramsay left her with.

“C-Can I…touch it?” He asked. Even though his little fingers must have grazed it a thousand times before—this was different. He knew where it came from now. She nodded, and his fingers reached out. Brushed the white, slightly, raised scar.

“Why did Ramsay hurt you?” He retracted. Innocent-eyes gawked up at her.

“Because he was sick, Sweet Boy. There is no logical reason, why he did it. But I was married to him, for a time. You are not a bastard child, not a Snow.” She told him, gently.

His eyes widened, “You were married to someone other than, Papa?”

She nodded, solemnly.

“Your Papa saved me, and it almost cost him his life. He was brave, and gentle. And I fell in love with him, because of his gentle nature.” She sighed, lightly. “You are nothing like the man that fathered you. You are like my brother, Robb. He died before you were born. But you would have gotten on well with him. Your spirit is similar.”

Robb smiled at her, through his tears. And she wiped them again. Prior to pulling him in for a hug.

“Now, come on. Let us go see, Theon.” Hand in hand—they proceeded.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Robb climbed up on the bedcoverings. And cuddled, close to Theon. His chest rose, and fell against the blankets. His face was worn, and tired. His skin sickly, pale. His cheeks hollowed out. The muscles he had built on his arms, were long faded.

Sansa would exercise his arms, and legs. Keep his muscles from atrophying, but he was still not active enough to keep tone, to his muscles.

Sansa’s skin still tingled, where Robb’s finger had traced. The image of his curious eyes attempting to make sense of the suffering caused by Ramsay—made her heart ache. One so gentle as Robb could never understand. No one could. Darkness could intercept a soul, latch on—and refuse to let go. She had felt that twist. That darkness. It had claimed her—burdened her, and she had succumbed to it. Until she felt the world cave in around her. Until, Theon broke apart at the seams.

Darkness came for every person. It was up to the individual, whether they succumbed to it, or drew away. Sansa regretted her choice.

To see the man she loved, confined to these four walls. Hollow, and broken? It shattered her.

Unequivocally.

Over the years, her bones ached with the memory of how it felt to be touched. She had nearly forgotten the sensation of those rough, male hands on her skin. She missed the gentle kisses on her lips. And the whispered, reassurances that Theon would give. She missed Reek, and Theon. She missed him. All of him.

 Her skin was uncomfortable. She slept alongside her son, now. Little Robb was her only sense of human contact. The only segment of her that did not feel dead. But thrived. He was all she had for light, and joy. She taught him, the way Robb taught her, to share warmth in nudity. Jon knew—and chastised her, for the way she parented her son. It was unnatural for a mother to lay in nakedness, with her son. But Robb was little yet, halfway past his fifth name-day. He would suckle from her sometimes, in the darkness. No one knew that either. No one else, but her and Robb knew that she kept her milk flowing. Squeezed in the privacy of the privy-room, to keep the stream constant.

In case, Reek ever woke up—she wanted him to have her milk. It was a secret. She taught her son, about secrets.

“Papa, Mum said that you saved her once. From a horrible, man. She told me that you were brave. And that you love me.” Robb hung around, Theon’s neck. Nudged his face into the crevice of his shoulder-blade and neck. Then left a kiss, there. “I wish you would wake up.” He hummed.

Sansa wiped a few stray tears. Summoned her strength, and settled on the edge of the bed. Took Theon’s hand in her own, and kissed the back.

She rarely gave him physical contact that wasn’t absolutely, necessary, anymore. It hurt so much to touch him, and know he could not touch back.

His hand was warm, soft. He no longer had callouses on his palms and remaining, fingers. His skin was pale, wrist, thin. But he was still, Theon. And she felt guilt, for not offering him much physical contact anymore. She could not even bring herself to touch him when he pulsed to life as she changed him. It felt like a violation somehow. To his poor, decrepit flesh. Could the pleasure even be felt? She did not know. Could he even feel at all? There was no telling from the state his mind was left in, now.

And which pieces (if any) were still trapped in there?

Sansa watched in nostalgia, as her little boy whispered soft things, into Theon’s ear. He would belay stories, and occurrences throughout the day, onto Theon, because for all they knew—he could hear them.

And when Robb, finally tired of visiting with Theon, he asked her permission, to go down to the courtyard, to play. She granted it to him. And he was off.

She was left alone.

Theon’s breathing her only companion now. Regret shadowed her heart. Skimmed the surface. His cationic state, drove a wedge into her emotions. Rigidly, she settled in complacent silence for a long time after Robb left. She did not know, how long—but it lasted.

Finally, she broke the silence.

“Reek…Theon…If you are still in there, I want you to know that I am sorry. For everything. I promised to keep you safe, most of all, Reek. And I failed you. Again. I can never tell you just how sorry I am about all of it. I wish I could speak to you again. Touch you—really touch you. It has been so difficult, to watch our son grow, without you here. Truly, here.” Her lips grazed his knuckles.

Tears landed on his hand, sobs rattled her shoulders, and she dipped down. Kissed the chapped surface, of his lips. Hummed in tired, contemplation. As she drew back up. Let her lips tingle with the proof of his.

In a moment of tired, weakness, Sansa decided to do something. Something she had not done, in four years. With cautious eyes, she crossed their chambers. Clicked the lock on the door. She did not want to be disturbed. And returned to his side. Hesitantly, she removed her dress. First the stays were unlaced, then the fabric, shoved down her trim hips. Finally, she unlaced his gown. Drew it overhead. Watched his arms droop back onto the bedclothes.

With a final movement, she laid down. Only his cloth diaper between them. His skin was warm. Flush to hers, as she curled an arm around his waist. And tucked her face into his neck’s crevice. Before long, she was asleep in his arms. The covers drawn up to her chin.

 

 

* * *

 

**_Reek_ **

 

The jumble never ended.

Never.

There was hot. Cold.

Love. Hate. Ramsay. Sansa.

Touch sensory—sometimes haziness.

It all disconnected. Synapses attempted connection—enlightenment.

Then blackness plunged in on him.

Again and again.

Light came. Sound came.

Then nothing.

Sansa looked sad. So sad.

He tried to touch her. Rub her hand—but he never could.

A strange boy would hold him. Touch him. Speak to him.

He felt like the round; cherubic face should be familiar.

It wasn’t.

Nothing was.

Nothing ever was.

Until warmth—skin. Contact.

Pleasure used to be felt—sometimes.

It had left long ago.

Sansa…Sansa…Why was she so sad…?

Why?

He wanted to know…He needed to know…He **wanted** —

And then the black would come for him.

Always the black.

 

* * *

 

 

Blinding light came. Imposed on his sensitive corneas. Blinded him.

Why was it so bright?

He could see beauty. Feel full, round breasts pushed in on him. Heat—body.

He made a sound, low in his throat. His throat was dry. Parched.

He felt like he had not drunk in ages. He was sore.

Beauty—light slept beside him. So beautiful.

So pretty.

Slow, decrepit movements were made. He sought out the full, thick, mammaries clad against his chest. Suckled, lapped at the teat in hunger. Instinctively lapped down the substance. And moaned, heavenly, in his throat.

“Shh, Robb…s’alright…” Confused for a moment, Reek was too parched to care.

He continued to lap—and suck. Weakly. His body felt like it weighed a ton. Like a movement was akin to lifting a building.

Sansa stroked through his thick curls. It only made him feel more need. He was starved for touch. It felt like he had not had it in ages. He leaned up into her fingers as he suckled.

His thoughts were simple.

Difficult to decipher—and heavy. Oh, so heavy. And he took note of strange padding around his hips, but his arms were too heavy to explore. He laid half-atop his lover—and kept feeding. He fed, until he had his full.

And when hazy eyes landed on him—and gasped. Reek froze. Rigid.


	35. Part 35; To Piece a Psyche.

**_Part 35; To Piece a Psyche._ **

* * *

> _We get ill together_
> 
> _we get well together._

* * *

 

 

**_Sansa_ **

She dreamed of him sometimes.

Reek, Theon—even the protector. In the woven, precipice of subtle, oasis, Sansa would lose herself to the mournful touches that came only here.

She liked to believe, these dreams were a window, into their mind.

That when she kissed, touched—and lusted here, that it was the echo of her beloved calling to her. Reminding her that he was still in there somewhere. Still alive. And fighting with his own mind, to live. And breathe.

Because she could still remember how he cried for her, when those men attacked him. How she felt his pain—wrenched into wakefulness, with the knowledge that she needed to find him. They were connected. In mind, body—spirit. She had no other explanation for what had occurred.

Or perhaps—the dreams were merely dreams.

As Jon constantly, attempted to convince her, they were.

Either way, the dreams were strong. And always filled with confessions of love—and need. Always left her aching—and drenched between her thighs when she woke.

Tonight, however—the dream felt so real.

She could almost feel him. His flesh. Nearly taste the remnants of her milk, on his tongue. And feel a suckling at her breast.

Enough for her to rouse. And she momentarily, forgot where she and fallen into sleep.

Forgot that Robb was not asleep beside her, like he normally would be. Therefore, could not suckle at her teat.

So, she mumbled to him. Sighed. Dragged her fingers through her boy’s hair. And felt curls. Curls that were wound looser that Robb’s—wilder, untamed. As she opened her eyes to inspect—the sight that met her, made her blood, nearly run cold with shock.

Those emerald-eyes that she had not seen light up in five years peaked up at her—as though they never closed. Never lost their light—their cognizance. He suckled—as though it were five years hence. And she stepped back into the veil of time, in order to witness, just one—perfect memory with the man she loved.

But with cognizance—came recognition. His paleness, and lack of muscle-tone, were dead giveaways that this was not the past—nor was it a dream. In her dreams he was the picturesque of health. Brimming with shy eyes, and a tender smile.

And his lack of agile, movement—despite his evidently, startled state, made her even more aware.

“R-Reek?” She dared to hope.

Dared—even; to ask.

“Sa—nn—sa…” His voice was slow. As though struggling to form a word. Like his mouth was full of rocks—and would not move properly to match what he wanted to say.

Shivers traveled up her spine. Tears came to her eyes—and without thought to his weakened state—she launched into his arms. Tackled him down to the sheets, and clung on for dear life.

She needed to make certain this was real. After so long without him. Without any belief that he might still have a brain left—She had to feel it for herself.

Had to be sure this was not another spiraling, dream.

Sobs cracked from her throat. She never thought she would see him again—not alert. Or aware. Not like this.

He was by no means, ‘perfect’ but he was here. Moving. Attempting to speak.

Her lips collided with his milky-tasting, ones. Felt him react—slow—but certain, to her tongue forced inside. All at once, she recognized her own selfishness—she could be hurting him!

And she lifted up. Balanced on the palm of her hand, she sought out his optics. Kept her weight from crushing in on his potentially, sensitive, form.

“Promise this is not a dream…You are awake…and alive…Reek…” Her voice brimmed with warmth—and excitement. Tears landed on his chest.

“P-Pr…Pr…” He tried—and failed to get the word out.

His eyebrows drew together—confusion laced his eyes. Questioning her, silently.

She could see the panic, in them. The fear.

And knew she needed to get help. The Maester—urgently.

“Stay awake for me…Do not move! Stay, Reek.” With a swish of a kiss planted upon his chapped, full-lips. Sansa, then, hoisted herself up, with a flash, dashed to the closet, sought out her robe, only to wind it around her bodice, before she unclicked the lock on the door, and raced out into the hall.

Jon, happened to be passing, his son, Alren, on his heel. Raven-black hair, like Jon’s, and tired, dark brown, optics peered up, in curiosity. They halted in their tracks. Jon had been speaking in hushed tones to Alren, but she had not caught what he was saying.

“Sansa…Are you alright?” She must appear a fright. She could feel her cheeks reddened with color, her eyes swimming in tears.

Jon released Alren’s hand, in order to come closer. Clutch her shoulders to steady her. “Has something happened to Theon?” He motioned with his head, rubbing her arms up, and down in calm, reassurance.

“Speak to me…Use your words.” Her mind was in shock. She was still attempting to get the words out.

 After all that time, languishing in their marital bed, Theon had returned to her. Or at least, Reek had. Her beloved, Reek…

“He…He is awake! I n-need the Maester…” Finally, she caught her breath. Looked into Jon’s eyes, and pleaded for him to help. Her legs felt wobbly, all of the sudden. As though they might give out from the shock. “Alren!” The boy startled as she let out a loud, call of his name. He was unused to such a shrill tone, being used on him.

“Y-Yes, Aunt Sansa?” His little voice was trembling.

“Go find Robb, he is in the courtyard, bring him up here, would you?”

Alren looked to Jon, as though seeking permission, and his father gave a curt, nod. He scurried away, without a look back.

“You are certain he is awake…? Last time, he moved a little bit, you thought he was awake, too. It was probably just a reflex—”

“He spoke, Jon. He kissed me…He is awake!” She yanked on his arm, unable to stand being called a liar, for one more second.

Sure enough, there was Reek. He had (somehow) struggled into an upright position. Back pressed to the intricately, carved, wooden headboard. Sunken-eyes shifted over toward them—slowly. And Jon’s eyes widened, in disbelief.

“Gods…” His voice cracked.

“Please, go get the Maester…” Without another word, Jon hurried away.

 

 

* * *

 

**_Reek_ **

Scrambled thoughts—memories, attempted to connect.

Instead—they would splinter—then crack, before returning to nothingness.

So many emotions. He could not process them fast enough.

His mind felt damaged—broken.

Why was it broken?

His skin bristled as his Sansa—tackled him. He felt sore. His back, and legs, had cramps. Feet hurt. But she kissed him—and it was all he could process.

Kisses.

He missed them. So much.

Why did he miss them? Had he not kissed her only yesterday?

Then she was lifted off of him. Gone—with haste. And he struggled to follow—but his legs only moved a little bit.

It still felt like lifting a building—or heavy stone—to so much as shift them. Oh—it hurt.

Exhausted, he gave in. Settled back against the headboard. Felt his chest, heavily—rise and fall with great strain.

His eyes flickered closed. His skin crawled with heat.

Lust boiled in his loins from her kisses. He felt like he had been untouched for ages. But he was too tired to move his arms to alleviate it.

Too tired…

She told him to stay awake. Why wouldn’t his words work? He tried to make them work.

Then she was back—and her warm-hands were soft on his chilled skin. He hummed, low in his throat. Leaned into her touch. She was so soft—so warm. Safe.

She was speaking to him again—he struggled to concentrate on the words. On what she wanted him to say.

“Reek…tell me what you remember? The last thing you remember? Can you do that, Sweet Boy? Can you do that?”

He liked it when she used that nickname on him. He liked her honey-sweet voice, when it soothed, and loved him. He felt so good, and loose in his belly when she would offer him meals from her breasts. And coax him with touches. So many touches. His head was woozy—why was it so woozy?

She wanted him to speak?

He could try, again.

“S-Sl…ee…p…with…S-Sa—nn-sa…”

The words came out all jumbled. Like a child’s sentence. Like a toddler.

He was not in physical pain—not like when those men hurt him. Not like with Ramsay…

He remembered waking up. If he concentrated hard enough—he saw pictures in his mind. Pictures of morning sun. A want to stay—stay with Sansa.

Then blackness. So long there had been blackness.

How long? **How long**?

Agony had come. Stabbed at him in the darkness. Stabbed at his brain until there was searing agony. Until he felt half-alive. Until the jumbled-ness started. Until he thought he might die from it.

It hurt. And he fought for so long, in the dark. The dark…

Suddenly, Sansa’s weight left the bed. He snapped from his trampled thoughts. Saw the Maester in his garb, with his tools. And he winced. But he could not move far—nor fast.

Could not flinch away as he was prodded, pinched—poked.

He whined in his throat.

“S-S-S-Sannn—sa!” he cried for her.

He did not want to be poked. He did not want to be touched by anyone else.

Just her.

After so much darkness—blackness—pain. So much…

He was finally free of it. Free of the nothingness. Free from this mind.

The little boy was stood alongside her. He saw him. Who **was** the little boy?

Reek sobbed. Felt his throat burn with the thickness of tears.

“You are okay, Reek. I am here. I am **right** here. Shhhh…” Sansa had ahold of his cheeks again. She was brushing at them. Lovingly. Kissing him.

He kissed back. He wanted her—only her, here.

He needed to know what was going on. Why was he like this? Why was everything so **hard**?

His mind would not work. His thoughts would not work. And Sansa—Sansa looked different.

So different.

 

 

* * *

 

**_Sansa_ **

 

She could see that he was struggling. To speak—to react. His mind was broken—fractured. And the Maester warned her of this, ages ago, but she always believed he would awaken—and it would all go back to the way it was.

He would be weak, but better.

And he would learn to walk again, with time—but also to speak.

What if this was the only state he would ever exist in?

She asked him a question, and his mouth attempted to form the words. She understood them, but no one else did.

“He remembers sleeping with me…right, Reek?” She pressed, and she felt his head bob against her hands.

It was a nod.

She climbed from the bed, and ruffled her hand, through Robb’s hair. He was looking on with saddened optics. His eyes filled with tears.

“What is wrong with, Papa? Why can’t he speak, right?” He looked upon her, awaiting an answer.

She clenched her jaw, felt her heart swell with pain, but she lowered to his level. And stroked his cheeks. “He is just a little bit tired. It took a lot out of his mind to fight through a seizure. He might have lost a few memories, or abilities along the way. It just means we need to re-teach, Papa, these things.”

“You mean he has to learn…like I do?”

“Exactly, Sweet Boy. Just like you do.”

Robb peered back at the bed, looking on as Reek began to wail at the top of his lungs. Clearly upset by the touch of the Maester. He was observing his reflexes. Attempting to survey him—to see if there were any lasting damage to his nerves, and tendons.

When she heard her name, shrieked out in distress, she was off her knees, and to his side in an instant. The Maester, instinctively stepped back.

Gave him space.

She whispered soft, soothing words to him, and gave a tender, little kiss. She needed him to feel safe. Secure. It was how she always made him feel safe.

He returned the kiss, and she sighed into it. She was unable to believe that he was so much as awake. His emerald-eyes were **open**. His skin (though pale) was reflexive. Moving. And his eyes (though seemingly lost) held awareness.

“W-W-Wh…y?”

That single word made her heart lurch with pain. She had done this. Her, alone.

Her actions had decimated the fragile line that held his psyche together. She had never understood how fragile he was—how delicate—until she attempted to punish a piece of him. Now she knew what the consequences were. The divide that he existed in, was unstable. One affliction, could jumble the lot.

And she had jumbled the delicate peace, in which his personalities resided.

“You had a seizure, Reek. You have been gone for…for a long time…We thought…” She chanced a glance at Jon. Leeched off his strength, as he watched with saddened orbs.

“Thought you would never come back to us.”

She understood what he was asking without a full sentence. She knew he must be struggling to understand even the simplest of things. Reek had always been child-like. Now, it was worse.

Fear—then recognition seemed to light his dazed eyes.

“H-H-H—ow…l-lon…g?”

He managed to speak.

She warred with her own mind. Uncertain if she should tell him. How might he react to such news? It wasn’t just a few days this time. It was years—years of his life, lost.

Tears welled in her eyes, “F-Five years, Reek.”

Horror wrote onto his features. His head shook, twitched. His hands bunched into the fabric at her waist, and he closed his eyes. Clenched them shut. He refused to believe it. His arms struggled to wrap around her. Struggled to hold on. And the implication was clear—he did not want her to leave his lap. He wanted her close—wanted to be held.

So, she stayed.

She would always stay.


	36. Part 36; To Ease Questions.

**_Part 36; To Ease Questions._ **

* * *

****

> _Be patient and tough._
> 
> _Someday this pain_
> 
> _Will be useful to you._

* * *

 

**_Reek_ **

Five years…

He had been trapped in that endless—agonizing—darkness for five years?

Scrambled, untraceable thoughts tried to wrap around that concept.

Five…

Tired, heavy, arms latched hold of Sansa. This world needed to stop. His mind needed to stop.

He was so tired. So, confused.

How could he have been unconscious for five years?

It felt like yesterday. The sleeping—awakening—pushing of his ‘protector’ through his mind.

What caused a seizure?

Hot, thickness, accompanied these chambers. The air. His skin sweated. Breathed with great difficulty.

He wanted to know things. Real things. Like who that boy was…The one with sad eyes that stared up at him. Just off to the side.

Next to Jon—and another small boy.

“R-R…obb—”

He forced the word out. Flashes of a small little bundle brimmed at his focal point.

He had forgotten—Sansa had a baby.

 **How** had he forgotten such an important fact?

Wetness pooled, rimmed his eyes. What else had he forgotten?

“Yes, that is Robb—” She made a slight head-gesture, toward the crestfallen, youth. “Our son has grown, Reek. But I told him about you. About his papa.” Her words made his heart glow with pride. Light.

His son was five. He had a son…no longer a baby.

He remembered the warm, fuzzy bundle of blankets, and smiles. Little Robb.

It was only yesterday…

Strained grasps on reality, came together.

More and more, the longer he kept his eyes open.

Years, he spent as this lifeless, being. Still, unable to process thoughts. Still so tired…

“The Maester only need know if you are hurting. Are you Reek? Does anything hurt? When I touch you—” Soft—warm hands, dragged pale-skin. “—are you in any pain?”

He liked the warmth. Sansa. She is warmth.

It took a moment—longer than it should—but he managed to shift his head.

No.

Nothing hurt. Everything felt **heavy** —impossibly so.

“W--We-ak…” The single word sounded guttural. Harsh—and somehow, toneless, all at once.

“You will be for a while. We have to build up your arms, and legs. You will feel better, soon. I promise.” She flinched. He saw it, though barely registered it.

“We kept you dosed with Milk of the Poppy, too. We thought you might be in pain.” Her eyes were blue-pools. Beautiful. Tender.

She cared so deeply—such emotion was written into those fierce-blues.

He made a deep breath. Tired eyes, managed to stay open. Even though he feared that drug—it made him useless—his ambitions were gone.

Hazy—colorless things he could not quite grasp.

He made a noise—even that vibration drained precious energy. Rattled his vocal cords, seared his cells.

Sansa’s warmth was everywhere. Engulfed him.

Squirrelly sensation still dominated his belly. Screamed for touch.

For comfort. Sansa’s kind of comfort.

He felt hardness where their thighs touched. Felt hunger—need.

Her eyes changed—weight shifted.

He wanted— **needed** —worse than it had ever been. How could he convey as much to Sansa? She felt it. Felt **him**.

He felt helpless. Visions swirled behind his eyelids.

He closed them. Let his arms fall away from around her waist. It felt like boulders weighed them down, still.

Had he done wrong? He reacted with need, in front of people.

He wanted to cry.

“Papa?” Sudden brightness surged up his spine. Tingled right in his heart. He wrenched his tired-eyes back open.

Curious sun-kissed, skin beamed back at him. Frightened, solemn eyes. Identical to Sansa’s—To Robb’s. Curly mops of brown, hair laid askew on his forehead.

So handsome.

Like Robb had been.

“R-R-Ro-bb.” He forced out the name. Needed to say it, again.

To know Sansa’s son was no more a warm, soft, laughter-induced, babe—enlightened him.

Swarmed through his mind. Screamed at him.

Robb had been safety. Light. Unable to hurt him. Now—this being looked up to him. Sought his attention. His wisdom.

He could not think straight. But a child depended on **him** , now.

“I always wished for you to wake up, Papa…” His small, bony figure climbed astride Reek’s lap. Wiggled, squirmed, and pushed his nose into the soft skin, of his neck.

Reek whined. Not from pain—from emotion.

The heavy warmth weighed in on him. This felt familiar.

Frequent.

How was he remembering this?

How many times had Little Robb sought this comfort from him? How many?

He questioned his own mind. His own memories.

He needed his head to connect. To break through this fog—and reawaken.

With a ton of weight attached; his arm lifted, anew. Curled in heaviness, around the young boy’s back. Brushed his spine. Held the bones, near.

He was here now. He wanted to say it. To promise he would stay—but promises never came true.

Sansa made promises. Promises of his safety—but promises were impossible to keep. Impossible to have.

He could fade into another seizure. Never wake up again. Never live again.

And now this little life would be devastated by that outcome.

How could he handle it? The not knowing? Not remembering?

For now, all he could manage—was to settle. Hold Little Robb (with great difficulty) and fade back into beckoning sleep.

 

 

* * *

 

**_Sansa_ **

 

To see Reek in this state—hurt. Beyond words, nor reason. She could barely touch him, without regret for her own actions. Without disappointment that lingered in the worst possible way.

Jon took the initiative, to usher everyone out of their chambers. His son, the Maester—everyone.

Reek appeared to be in no immediate, danger. So, Sansa made no move to prevent him. Instead, she returned to his bedside, and let her fingers brush over Robb’s back. He was still settled on Reek, as though willing his strength to go into Reek.

He was such a sensitive boy. Such care in those Tully-eyes.

“Mum? Will he wake up again, this time? Or will it be like…before?”

Stubby-arms, unwound from Reek’s frame. And the arm that had been around him, fell back down, to Reek’s lap. Robb still, only shifted enough to look her in the eye. He had a habit of needing to look a person in the eye. Sometimes, she could swear that he could see through any lie she told him.

He was inquisitive. Highly intelligent.

“He will wake again. He is tired. His body is very weak. It is unnatural to be immobile for this long.” Sansa found difficulty in explaining all of this to him. Especially with those knowing-eyes, firmly-planted on her.

“Mum, do you think…Will Papa, be okay?” His voice trembled through the whispers, cracked, and broke in places.

Sansa’s heart shattered. “Of course, Robb. He is going to recover, and he will be just as strong as he was, before. He has endured so much worse than this. Remember how I told you that, Papa was hurt by Ramsay?”

He nodded.

“What Ramsay did was worse than anything the seizure did to him.”

“He took his cock away…That is what the maids said.”

Sansa flinched. Repulsed by the thought that vicious gossip was still flying around, about her husband.

“He did.” Sansa swallowed the thickness, that rose in her throat. It always hurt her to remember the first time she saw Reek cowering in those hound pens. His body damaged—broken. It had been nearly impossible not to feel some form of pity for him. Even then. Even despite the (supposed) knowledge, that he had murdered her brothers.

“Why? Why did he hurt, Papa, that way?”

Robb was not going to give this up. She could tell. Her answers had not satisfied his curious mind. He was still seeking. Still needed to know.

“He liked the pain it caused.” Sansa could not believe she was about to belay such information onto her son, but she knew it would bother him. Eat him up inside. Worry him.

He was so sensitive to things, and knowing he was biologically connected to this vile man—would affect him.

“He liked to see, Papa, hurting?”

Sansa nodded. “He liked to see anyone hurt, really. But, Theon most of all. Reek is the name; Ramsay gave to him. He told him it suited him. Would not let him bathe, or wash his clothes. He would smell, because of it. So, Ramsay would tease him.”

A few tears rolled down Robb’s cheeks. He sniffled. Then rubbed his arm across his face, to wipe the snot, and tears away. “Papa went through all of that?”

Another nod.

“And he survived…” Robb’s voice trailed off.

“His soul split into pieces. That is why Papa may go by different names, sometimes. He is broken.” She explained,

Robb’s lower lip trembled. “He still goes by that name…Reek. That is why you call him, Reek? Papa prefers that name?”

“I explained to you before, that he has other personalities, Robb. Reek is one of them. Theon is also one. He will tell you, which version of himself he is, when he wakes up. Sometimes he changes during the day, others when he sleeps. We just have to wait and see.”

Robb was clearly troubled. His tiny fingers were brushing Theon’s skin. Lightly, tracing his neck. Theon would shift every now and again. But never wake.

“What if I become like Ramsay? What if…What if I hurt people…?” Robb gave her a frightened state. “Do you…think I am capable of it?’

Sansa gaped at her son. She remembered a time when she believed he was only capable of atrocities. Before he was born. Before she ever held him in her arms. She had feared him. Feared his capabilities. Not now, though. Not since she had begun to raise him. Had witnessed his natural gentility, and complacent resolve.

“No. You will never be capable of it. Ever. I promised, Theon that you would only know him. That you would never know of Ramsay, so that you would never have to know about such a monster. Only because you have no shared personality traits with that man. He was cruel, beyond reason. You care, Robb. You care more than anyone I know. You have such a big heart. You love without fail. Ramsay was incapable of love. Of feeling. You aren’t.”

He seemed to take note of her conviction. He was still crying—but not sniffling. He appeared thoughtful.

“I hope, Papa will love me. Despite what my Father did to him. Do you think he fears me, Mum?”

Sansa’s eyebrows drew together. “He would never fear you, Sweet Boy. He fears a lot of things, but not you. I promise. He is just scared right now. He will become better. You will see.” She promised.

And in her heart—she prayed it was true.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so sorry I have been MIA for a few days. I live in Ridgecrest, the town that got hit by the massive Earthquake, and I have been dealing with that for days. It has been terrifying, and insane! And I do not wish it on anyone!


	37. Part 37; To Remember Anew

**_Part 37; To Remember Anew_ **

* * *

 

> _My biggest fear is eventually_
> 
> _You will see me the way_
> 
> _I see myself._

* * *

 

**_Theon_ **

Warmth. He felt warmth. It was the first true sensation he had. Deep in the pit of his belly, Theon felt something was wrong.

Something had happened—but what?

He remembered blinding, searing pain. Like he had never felt before.

Recalled the sound of Sansa’s shrieks. Calling his name. He wanted to go to her. Wanted to reach out, and hold his wife—but she felt so far away.

He had been detached. Unable to overcome the darkness that bid him forth.

The scent that omitted from the warm body against him; was unfamiliar. He could feel the rise and fall of breath. And he shivered, slightly. The scent **was** mildly, familiar. Where did he know it from? It was natural. Clung to the warm body’s skin.

As his eyes opened a crack, he recognized a heap of a boy sprawled on his lap. Theon was propped up on pillows, and at such an angle, that he readily supported this boy’s weight.

Sansa was nearby, her hand, rested on his upper-thigh. Her ocean-eyes trained down. Perhaps, a prayer on her lips.

His very first ounce of recognition came when he placed the scent.

Ramsay.

The scent that clung hold, and stuck to this young boy’s skin—was Ramsay’s.

Suddenly, he recalled his arms, curled around the bundle of a babe. Eyes trained downward, taking in the pink features. And toothless-gums, of a smiling, cherubic-face.

Robb. It was Robb.

Antsy sensations crawled up his spine. He felt panic in his chest—only for a moment. Why was he so large? He had been a babe—only yesterday.

Yesterday…It was yesterday…Wasn’t it?

With hesitation, Theon moved his arms. Both felt heavy—leaden. But he managed to fight through his confusion—his pain. And shift.

Robb stirred on top of him. Further nuzzled his face into Theon’s neck. And Sansa’s ocean-eyes, found his. They opened, and her cheeks upturned into the softest of forlorn, smiles.

“Do you feel any better, Reek?”

He flinched at the name. Remembered how Ramsay used to use it, taunt him with it—until he detached. Until he could not take it, further.

“T-Theon…” The word came—but sounded bungled. Uncommonly, so.

Sansa’s eyes widened—and her hand jerked from his, quicker than a flash. She was off the bed, and a few inches away.

What had he done?

He wanted to follow her—but the weight of a still slumbering Robb on his chest—prevented him from even shifting, again.

Instead, he attempted to convey the hurt that jabbed his chest—with his eyes.

“W-Which Theon?” Her voice trembled, eyes-wide. She appeared frightened of what he might say, or **do**.

He was confused. Tired, and most of all— **immobile**. There was not a whole lot he could manage, from his space upon their mattress. His head felt as though it were split in half. His skin was ache—and fire.

“H-Husband…” With great difficulty, he compelled the word to befall his lips. His throat felt dry. Sore—and on the verge of swallowing, sandpaper.

Sansa appeared calmer, even came toward him, without preamble. Then, settled back on the bedsheets. Though she appeared white as a cloud. Her skin pale—drained of all color. He wondered, what the other Theon had done to her. How long had he been in control?

If Robb was this old…if his body felt this badly damaged…how long had it been, since he had laid eyes on his beloved? He noticed the weathered change in her features. She had aged—if only a few years.

Robb stirred on his chest, came too with sleep in his eyes. He rubbed them. Cautiously, and curious-optics, landed on his.

“Papa…?” He made a low hum in his voice. Rumbled his vocals. Theon felt his heart constrict as this young boy referenced him as ‘Papa’.

“You had a seizure, Theon. You were out for five years…Reek emerged first…a few hours ago. We thought you may never awaken, again.” She was quick to provide an explanation, as though it was rehearsed, and Theon’s stomach toiled in fear.

Five years?

A seizure?

For some reason these concepts would not connect in his mind. No matter how he attempted to force them to. Everything was fuzzy. Abnormal. He attempted to connect to the fragments that were circling his mind—but he couldn’t. They were out of touch.

The memories that strung together his seizure—were gone.

“Is he…Theon, now, Mum?” Robb gave a wavering glance in Sansa’s direction, and received a curt nod in return.

“Yes. It appears he is.”

“Papa! I have waited so long to be able to meet you! I always knew you would wake up!” He tied his legs around Theon’s waist, and practically squeezed him to death. Theon made a low sound in his throat. But wound his arms around his son’s waist, all the same.

He always knew that he could never be a father. With what Ramsay had taken from this body—there was no physical way he could. But he knew that Ramsay’s child, would need a father, all the same. He just never believed that a child of Ramsay’s would be so receptive to him. Or any man, for that matter.

He trained his mind on a singular thought—and forced out words. “W-Why did you think I would never wake up?” They sounded garbled—even to his own ears. But Sansa appeared to understand, without repetition.

“The seizure damaged your brain. The Maester did not know, how much of it was damaged, precisely. Just that you may never wake back up again. He even suspected your personalities could have been erased in the event. Or altered in some way. Or even that you lost your memories.” Her attempt at explaining, only worried him further.

What if he could not even remember what had been forgotten? Were there chunks in his memory banks now? He attempted to sift through—see what he could, of his past.

Pain—hurt—pierced his mind, as he struggled to see. Some images came easier than others. He could feel Sansa in his arms. Hear the sound of her voice in his ear, as they came together on their wedding night. He could see Ned’s face. A gentle calm in the air, as he taught him how to use a sword. He still preferred his bow, and arrow. Robb—his brother—Sansa’s brother. Sword chipped at the edges, in hand, pleading with him to fight for Ned’s honor. For the new King in the North.

Theon yanked his mind back. Reeled at the memories. So many memories.

Yara—soft, warm—Yara. Her pleading for him to come home. Not to die so far from the sea.

The sea—he could still feel the spray on his cheeks. Wind in his hair—the Kraken-blood in his veins sang to be underneath those waves. He remembered his life as a boy—the undercurrent would pull him deep, and he would nearly feel the sea as it filled his lungs. His breath held—ice in his veins. The sea creatures would hover near to his home. He could still view them, if he searched hard enough.

Those memories were his safe place, once. Sometimes, they still were.

Yara used to race him—speed under the waves, and he would follow. Pumping his arms in the frigid waters—losing to her, longer, muscled arms. He betrayed Yara—Reek had. And he retained those memories, too. How could he ever face her again?

“Y—ara…” He muttered the name, without even realizing he had. His eyes had gone a million miles away.

Sansa presented him with a concerned expression. Drew her eyebrows together. Curiously, his eyes landed on hers.

“Yara has come to visit. When she received news of your condition, she has come. To speak to you. In hopes it would awaken you. She is the Lady of the Iron Islands, now. She rules over your home. The very first Lady, as I hear it, told.” Sansa encouraged the thoughts of his sister. And he wondered why, Yara would have come here.

She had loathed him, when he returned. Snubbed him, and regarded him as a pretend-leader. More, or less, referred to him as a soft, Northern-Lord. Despite his ten years in the Iron-Islands.

“S-She…Did?”

Sansa nodded, squeezed his hand, softly. “I asked the Maester to send a raven, now that you have awoken. Perhaps she will come visit again. Would you like that?”

His eyes filled with tears. Imagined a piece of his home—a visit from his sister meant that his home would be near. And he offered her a nod, in return.

Robb beamed at him, “Aunt Yara was kind to me. She offered me a Kraken-pin. She told me, I am welcome in the Iron-Islands, if I ever wish to venture there.”

Theon was stunned at the news. Yara was not the friendly kind. Although, Theon had never viewed her in the company of children, previously.

He gave another nod, to Sansa. His mind was strained. Tired. It was difficult for him to remain alert—conscious. His strain to recall memories, had burdened his brain. Overworked him.

He rubbed his hand across Robb’s back. Felt the resistance in his muscles. They really did feel weak—and incoherently, docile. Even this slight movement was causing a cramp to begin in his forearm.

Robb shivered, and sighed in his arms. He felt bad for being gone this long. Being unable to raise his son with Sansa. He had promised to love, Robb. And now, he knew nothing about this young boy. Only the brief glimpses he could recall from holding him when he was a baby.

And for some reason—the familiarity of having him on his lap. Even though he could not have known it before, at least—not like this.

Perhaps he had some awareness in his unconscious, catatonic-state. But those memories were blurred. Stoned over with blurriness and haze.

“T-Tired…” It was strange to feel tired, after so much time being unconscious. How many years had he been asleep, and yet he still felt like he could attain more?

“Rest, Sweetheart. You would not want to send yourself into another seizure.” Sansa insisted, and he nodded in earnest. Thankful, that she understood.

He closed his eyes—and within moments—he was asleep, again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _I hope everyone enjoyed the bonus fic that I posted a few days ago, that is separate from this fanfic! I worked on it for a few weeks and decided to make it separate from this story, rather than a flashback, since it sort of drags a Reek and Sansa that would be alternative to this universe! It is kind of a bonus tale for your guys!_


	38. Part 38; To find Middle Ground.

**__**

* * *

 

> _Let us forgive each other;_
> 
> _Only then will we live in peace._

* * *

 

**_Sansa_ **

Worry lines were prominent all across Sansa’s opaque features. She barely slept a wink these past few weeks. Not with the constant fear for Theon’s life hanging in the balance. Sometimes, all she could think about was what if he couldn’t return to some semblance of who he was before? Could he survive knowing he would always be different?

Reek came out less than Theon. And she never saw the protective personality emerge even once. If any of his personalities were destroyed, she began to assume that that one had been.

Sansa helped guide Theon up and out of bed every single day. She could not stand to see him wilt in bed. She knew the looks on his face well and oftentimes knew that he was frustrated by his own lack of progress, but each and every day he was growing strong enough to walk further and further with her and Robb about the grounds.

Though she kissed Theon and Reek often, she had yet to bed either of them. Not for lack of wanting, but for the sheer reason that she was no longer used to pleasures of the flesh. It had been so many years without intimate touches that part of her had hardened to them. She felt undeserving of either of their love. The morning she chose to punish the protective personality was seared forever into her mind.

Clear-cut. And horrific.

She used Little Robb as a shield against her husband’s affections. Every night he squeezed between them both in their marital bed in nudity and slept. Sansa had never seen Little Robb happier in all his days. After all, he wasn’t the one that had walled off his heart over the years.

She had prepared herself to live a chaste life fending for the man she loved. Now, she had gone so long without it, it felt strange to return to it. She never even realized she could survive without touch of a sexual kind. Until she was forced to.

She saw the confusion in Reek’s eyes. Theon seemed to accept her unwillingness to bed him or speak about it, but Reek was the hardest to avoid. He had questions. And he wanted her touches. She offered him touch. But if he tried to reciprocate, she would draw away and shut down. It wasn’t fair. To either of them. But she didn’t know how to talk about it. And she was so ashamed—she hated lying to them.

She didn’t know how to tell them the truth either.

Worried that they would never forgive her if they knew; she kept it to herself.

Just another secret she had that would little by little eat her alive.

“Mum?” Little Robb had surfaced from underneath the swirl of furs. Naked his name-day he stood before her, firmly rubbing sleep from his eyes.

She had been settled with her back against the stone that carved out the window, a silken-robe wrapped tightly around her middle. Haunted eyes staring out at the midnight precipice of beauty. Lit by the ever-clear beam of the full moon, high up in the cloudless night sky.

“Yes, Sweet Boy?” Her mothering tone emerged without hesitation and Little Robb climbed astride her lap, his bodily warmth a comfort to her as his little legs spread to encircle her middle.

“Why do you seem so sad, Mum? Papa is getting better…shouldn’t you be happy?”

Her little boy didn’t miss a trick. He was so perceptive that sometimes it made her think about it notably. She often had to think fast and come up with a half-truth in order to cover her real problems. She surely couldn’t tell Robb anymore than she could Theon about the real reason she was so fucked up on the inside.

“I am happy. I am just scared he will have another seizure. You see how hard he pushes himself for us, don’t you?” Her hand rubbed up and down the length of his spine. Brushing little knobs and bumps along the way. He was so skinny. Only a slight pudge just in the middle of his stomach was noticeable on his frame for fat stores. He had never been one to eat.

“You do not ever bed each other…like man and wife…” Her breath was stolen in her throat.

“Who told you of bedding?” She had already had a stern conversation with the entire staff regarding topics that were off limits. Who on Earth spoke to him about such a crude subject?

“I hear Uncle Jon and Aunt Alysia in their chambers. I saw them once joined together…I know Papa cannot join with you…but you must do something…right? Something to feel good?”

Her cheeks were flushed so red she didn’t know if they would ever return to their natural pale color. Little Robb was too smart. And far too perceptive. There were no other explanations she could provide than that. Uncomfortably, she shifted.

“You need not worry about such things, Robb. They are for grown-ups to worry on. Understand?” She was not usually so stern with him, but something had to be done to tamper his curiosity on this matter.

Anything at all.

She eyed the bed where Theon was still a lump of sleep and snores. She was thankful for the little mercies right now.

“I do worry though, Ma…You are not happy. And neither is Papa…I can see how sad he gets sometimes. Both of his personalities…”

Abashed that he appeared unwilling to drop the subject, her teeth sank into her lower lip.

“One day you will have a wife of your own, Gods be good, and you will know that these things are never so black and white. Okay? Why don’t you feed a bit, hm? You are so thin, Robb.” She wanted a way to change the subject. With uncertain eyes he appeared to recognize what she was doing, but she knew he liked to feed from her.

It was a simple distraction really. And without much coaxing he took the bait.

She fished out a breast from underneath her robe and he latched on. Drinking from her fondly as she stroked through his hair tendrils. Listened to the sound of his suckling and sighed. She remembered when she deemed her own Aunt insane for allowing her son to suckle from her even after he was no longer a toddler.

She understood now.

Not wanting to let go of this connection. Especially since she knew it would be explicitly impossible for her to have it ever again, once it was at an end. She would never carry another baby to term. Never hold a screaming bundle of joy whom relied on her for nourishment. There would only ever be Little Robb. She wanted to seize his youth for as long as she could. She wanted to remember what it felt like to nourish someone she grew inside of her own body. Without realizing it was even occurring a few stray tears rolled down her cheeks.

Collected at her robe collar. Subtly, her lips grazed over the top of his head. She planted a barely there kiss to his hair. Drank in the scent of him. Fire ash and honey-soap.

When his belly was full, he nuzzled against her and dropped his lips from her teat. “You still love, Papa…Don’t you?” She gave off a tired sigh, well-aware of the fact that he would not be swayed from this subject.

“With all my heart, Robb.” Sad-eyed she kissed the tip of his nose and he shivered in her arms.

“Then why don’t you bed him?”

She gave out a frustrated sigh.

“It is complicated. I did something bad, and I am afraid Theon will never forgive me for it. I haven’t told him about what I did, yet. I never told anyone.” Her eyes clouded with worry and she tore them away from her trusting little boy.

“He loves you. Just like I love you, Mum. And he needs you Mum. You have been separated for so long, haven’t you both been away long enough?” She marveled at Robb’s maturity. Sometimes, she mistook him for an old soul. Sometimes, if she viewed him in the proper light—she mistook him for her eldest brother.

She remembered when she used to seek counsel with her brother, Robb. She would whisper sweet nothings into his ear and wonder if he would miss her with the same depth that she missed him when they finally had parted. She remembered the absence of him everywhere she looked in King’s Landing. The thought of him huddled in a tent, mapping out the greatest route to snatch her back from the clutches of the Lannister’s. The tears she cried when she knew him to be departed from this life for good.

She closed her eyes and swallowed deep in her throat. “When did you get so knowledgeable about things? Hm?” She wanted him to remain her little boy forever; but she knew he wouldn’t. In a blink he would be old enough to wed a Lady, or a princess and she would lose him. She pushed her nose into his neck and a few more tears rolled down her cheeks.

“Don’t cry, Mum.” He wrapped his arms around her shoulders and she ignored the shredding of her own heart.

What would she do without him? She never wanted to find out, but one day she would. One day, he would be gone from her side.

“You remind me of my brother. You remind me of, Robb.” Her voice trembled. “He would have said those words to me.” She believed what she was saying with every ounce of her soul.

Robb was silent for a long time after that, and they stayed there. Just like that until time became undecipherable to them both.

 

* * *

 

 

**_Theon_ **

 

Something changed in the way Sansa touched him. Her distance plagued him, and it only made him fight harder to be the man he was before. The man she pleaded to accompany her between her bedsheets, despite the knowledge that he was no longer a whole man. None of it mattered now. Something was different but he couldn’t place his finger on what, exactly.

Her eagerness to lay with him the way she did before had diminished.

Years without touch—without love—had hardened Sansa into a mourning Mother. Theon had deciphered that much about her. But he still had the sense to recognize that she was plagued by more than just her grief.

At first, he thought she was afraid to hurt him. But he was able to go on walks around the castle grounds now. He had built up his arms enough to lift her off the ground with a bit of strain, and according to the Maester he was well on his way to pique health again.

Still, Sansa was different around him. Detached, even.

His mind troubled him off and on.

Sometimes he was unable to remember what he had gotten up to accomplish. Others he thought he glimpsed a memory, but just as quickly felt it tear from view. Some things he didn’t remember. Others he did.

His most potent memories were of the sea and of his home in the Iron Islands. He remembered less about Winterfell than he used to. Of that he was nearly certain. Yara had promised to visit in the next month. Her letter had been scratched out in rushed scrawl and delivered by raven. Even that news caused a nervous tick in him. What would Yara have to say to him of Reek’s betrayals? Would he be accepted back home if he wished to venture there?

Little Robb became easier to withstand with each day that passed. He was less ill at ease around him. He found him to be an engaging and pleasant soul. The fear he had when he learned that Sansa’s son had been fathered by Ramsay was all but gone. His scent still unnerved him, but his personality won out.

Theon stretched and felt his limbs pop as he yawned. Little Robb was snuggled up against Sansa, their warm bodies sought one another’s heat in the night. Theon might have felt jealousy, if he didn’t feel such deep affection for their son. With a wistful glance, Theon slid from underneath the covers and dressed in haste. He didn’t bother to wake, Sansa. He couldn’t stand to see the absent stare in her eyes when she greeted him.

Instead, he decided to head down to the kitchens and seek out breakfast. The servants were mostly unnerved by him (more than they were before) and most avoided him. They believed he was cursed, which was just as well. It gave him an easier time of being left in peace.

He felt useless most of the time. He was no longer a soldier that fought in a war nor was he a guard that served under Sansa’s bastard brother. He was just Theon. A man that spent time between this world and the next for the past five years.

Of course, rational folks feared him.

Though Sansa was not the superstitious type he wondered if she was just as unnerved with him as everyone else for the same reason. It was the only reason he could find that made sense to him.

He remembered how he had tried to convince her that they shouldn’t rut like savages in hound pens and other filthy areas whilst she had disregarded and ignored him. Now, he was like the plague.

He wolfed down the bits of bread and cheese the kitchen wench had served him and ignored the glances he received. His teeth hurt whenever he chewed down, but he ignored the aches and twinges in his jaw. When he finished, he hurried from the kitchens and headed out into the courtyard.

Wind whipped through the branches of the trees and spring air engulfed him. Theon found comfort in the fresh air. It was the closest he would ever come here to the sea breeze of his homeland. The more distant Sansa was with him the more he ached to be back in the Iron Islands. Even though he knew he was no more welcome there he believed he would feel like less of a burden.

“Theon. You well, man?” Jon’s voice startled him momentarily and he twitched.

“Yes, Jon. I feel well.” And he did.

Physically he no longer felt like he was confined to a bed. Sometimes, his arms and legs felt heavy and weighted when he moved them but it was nothing he couldn’t handle.

Alren—he learned Jon had two sons and a daughter while he was unconscious—glanced up at him. His slightly younger brother by a year, Brant stood close by. Clara was still just a toddler of two years old. Barely even mumbling words just yet and probably in the nursery. Jon was well on his way to having a widespread family like Ned did before the war claimed all of Sansa’s other siblings.

“Where is Sansa, and Little Robb?” Jon always seemed to assume that Theon was helpless without his family a habit that should have bothered him—but it didn’t.

“I left them to sleep. I wanted a bit of fresh air and time to myself.” He admitted giving nothing away in his sea-green gaze.

Theon wasn’t about to speak to Jon about his conflicted emotions regarding Sansa. Nor was it really Jon’s business at all whether they laid together as man and wife were meant to.

“Shall I leave you to it then?” Jon’s voice carried a hard edge to it whenever he addressed him. That much wasn’t lost on Theon. He knew how much Jon hated that he was wed to Sansa. After all, what did a dick-less man have need of a wife for, anyway?

“Uncle Theon used to be one of the best archer’s in Winterfell, Papa! Can he teach us how?” Alren interrupted their icy exchange, seemingly unaware of the tension in the air.

“Yea! Can he?!” Brant joined in with enthusiasm.

Theon’s cheeks flushed in brightness as he realized for the first time that both boys held bows in their hands. A few memories broke the surface of his psyche. The taut string of a bow and the release of an arrow. How relaxed his flesh used to be when he imagined the bow in hand. Once, long ago, he remembered the salty tang in the air as he shot arrow after arrow at a target. His elder sister Yara taught him to wield a bow. His brothers had taunted and teased him as he missed. But she had encouraged him. Coaxed him.

The memory faded away and he found two expectant children eyeing him in wait of his response.

“I think Theon needs his rest, boys. Maybe another day…” Jon attempted to answer for him, and Theon saw their faces fall.

“No. I am well enough to show them.” He straightened his back and squared his shoulders. He was tired of being overlooked and underappreciated. He wanted to appear worthy again. After so much useless time spent catatonic in stuffy chambers he deserved to have a little freedom to do as he pleased.

The boys whooped and cheered and Jon’s face remained neutral as though he could care less one way or the other.

A few minutes later they were all positioned in front of the straw target. Arrows fed into their bows and Theon stood close behind. Guiding their arms up and shoulders back. Coaxing advice into their ears while Jon looked on, silently.

After the fifth miss (from both boys) Theon could see their frustration mounting.

“No one gets it on their first day. Not even I did.” Theon remarked in gentle tones.

“How will I ever be a great warrior if I can’t even hit a target?” Alren whined in his throat.

Theon chuckled and ruffled the youth’s raven-hair. “Give me the bow, hm? Let me show you.”

Reluctantly, Alren handed it over and Theon primed himself into position. He had forgotten how it felt to hold a bow. The power it took from his weakened muscles just to draw back the string properly. His missing fingers made the deed all the harder. He swallowed and breathed in steadying his tremor-laden muscles the best he could.

“it just takes a little bit of practice, and concentration.” He instructed them. He trained his eye on the target, aimed—and let go. The arrow whizzed through the air and landed square in the middle of the target. Both boys watched in awe. Even Jon seemed impressed.

“I want to be like you, Uncle Theon!” Brant mused and Theon let out a slight chuckle.

“I am not as good as I was once, I doubt I could hit a moving target. Stationary targets are simple enough. I am not the man I once was.” He handed the bow back to Alren and the boys returned to practicing themselves.

“I doubt that is true, Uncle Theon.” Alren insisted.

“Yeah! I bet you could still hit a deer! Papa says you were a formidable foe with an arrow!” Brant piped in.

Theon was shocked that Jon had spoken to them about him at all, to be honest. He gave a small glance at Jon whom gave a slight shrug and a laugh. “He was. Your Uncle Theon used to be quite handy with a bow. Your Uncle Robb once wrote to me that he saved your Uncle Bran from Wildings with one.” Theon’s eyes flashed with the memory.

He could still remember the adrenaline pouring through him as he saw the danger Bran had been in and seen Robb so close to being killed right in front of him. He hadn’t thought—just acted. Saved them both and Robb scolded him for it.

“You did, Uncle Theon?!” Alren asked and Brant’s eyes grew wide.

“He saved my life with one, too.” All eyes landed on Sansa as she strolled across the courtyard to join them. Little Robb at her heel. Theon’s skin prickled with longing as his eyes landed on her bodice hugged by tight flimsy-fabric and he was quick to turn his eyes away.

“Really?!” Alren and Brant both brimmed with excitement.

“Mhm. Remember, Theon?” Her gaze pierced him. How could he forget?

“Ramsay nearly captured me when Jon was in the thick of battle. Theon used his bow to take him down if it wasn’t for Theon, Ramsay might have killed me. But he never saw Theon coming. No one ever does.”

He flushed with color and lowered his eyes.

“That’s why you married him, Mum?” Little Robb mused.

“One of many.” She admitted with a gentle smile.

His stomach turned over in need and he hated himself for falling to pieces whenever she so much as glanced at him. He felt his strength dwindle and his heart speed and stutter.

“Theon is teaching us to shoot a bow and arrow, Aunt Sansa!” Brant insisted.

“So, I see.” She beamed in amusement and came to a stop alongside Jon.

“He is still as great a marksman as ever.” Jon told her a tone of surprise in his voice.

“It is like riding a horse. You never quite forget how to do it once its learned.” Sansa mused, “Isn’t that right, Theon?”

“Of course, Sansa.” He had been slow to shoot the arrow but it did not miss.

The boys returned to their shooting and Theon found a reason to excuse himself, citing exhaustion. Little Robb stayed with Alren and Brant to begin learning himself. Sansa however, followed him up to their chambers.

“You were gone when I awoke.” Sansa clasped her hands together in a firm grip for a moment. Then she began to tug on each of her fingers and squeeze as though nervous.

He kept his eyes level. She always seemed ill at ease around **him** particularly. He searched through Reek’s memories and found that she was less perturbed in his presence though still unnatural.

“I was hungry so I went down to the kitchens to eat. When I went for a walk the boys asked me to mentor them in archery, so I did.” He inclined his head slightly forcing his head up to look at her.

“You did not need to follow me. I am quite content with napping alone.” That sentiment couldn’t be furthest from the truth but this awkwardness between them was somehow worse than being without her entirely.

This gave her pause and he wondered if she was considering it but she made no move to leave.

“I wanted to speak to you.” She spoke the words so fast they sounded jumbled.

He raised an eyebrow and shrugged. “Regarding?”

She swallowed nervously and tears welled in her eyes. “Your seizure…”

It was his turn to pause. He couldn’t remember the event itself. Nor much from before it. Those weeks were blurred together and hazy. He hadn’t regained the majority of those memories and he doubted if he ever would. He remembered pain. Splitting pain—but nothing more.

“What about it?”

She was trembling now. No longer close to tears, rather leaking them instead.

“Theon…I…I did something wrong. I caused your seizure…” She reached out to grip the wall for support and he watched her in confusion.

“How do you figure that? It isn’t your fault my brain is all fucked up. Ramsay made me this way.”

“No…No I…I did…I only meant to punish him…I didn’t mean for him to lose his mind…To go into a seizure I was so angry…” Sniffling Sansa finally came to settle on the edge of the bed. As far from him as possible.

“Punish who? What are you talking about?” She was making less and less sense by the second.

“The protector…The other Theon…” She hiccupped.

“How did you punish him?” Theon wondered aloud.

Her eyes darted away from his unwilling to look him in the eye as she told him her truth. “I pinched his stub…made him wet a bit…taunted him for not being a man anymore. Told him I wanted him to suffer…I did in the moment, Theon…Only in the moment. But I don’t want that anymore. I don’t want him to suffer, or any of you to suffer anymore…”

Theon’s back stiffened, eyes wide with disbelief. He didn’t know how to feel about what she was telling him. How was it possible that she had caused a seizure? Caused his mind to go catatonic and shut down through all these years? With a few unkind words? With imposed trauma?

“Why did you want him to suffer, Sansa? Did he hurt you?” Theon’s skin crawled at even the thought of one of his personalities causing her detriment.

“He was always so rough. And cocky. He left Reek to suffer in the worst way. Let men brutalize Reek so that he wouldn’t have to endure it himself. He was a coward…he said he was there to protect you and Reek but he wasn’t. He was only there to protect himself…and I was so angry because Reek suffered dearly and the protector only reemerged when the worst of the suffering was over. I couldn’t hurt him physically without hurting you and Reek, so I verbally humiliated him instead. I didn’t mean to break his mind…your mind…honest I didn’t. He told me that he killed your bastard son in cold blood…one of the farm boys…and I saw only red. I know how much you want a son of your own and knowing that he stole that away from you…from Reek…I couldn’t bear it. You must think I am wretched. If I had just forgiven him…if I had only done one thing differently…I became Ramsay…I became the person I hate most in this world!”

Theon listened on in a mixture of horror and sympathy. The burden that laid solely on her shoulders through all of these years had visibly taken its toll on her. He could see it in the way she carried herself. Hear it in the tone of her voice. Her skin was pale and thin. Her eyes hollowed and tired. She was no longer vibrant with life like Sansa had been five years hence. And it killed him inside.

“Sansa—”

“Little Robb told me to tell you the truth. I never wanted to. I wasn’t going to. This isn’t your burden to bear…it’s mine. But I couldn’t lay with you, knowing that I betrayed you so grievously. I was set to be a chaste wife for the rest of my days. I knew it was my punishment from the old Gods for what I did to you. And I was resolved to that fate…I thought I destroyed whatever was left of you that day…Now you are awake and you look at me with the same love you always did and I cannot bear it. I am not your sweet and loving wife anymore. I am a monster…I do not deserve the love you look upon me with. I never did, really.”

He felt his heart squeeze and pull. “You are saying you do not want me anymore. If that is what you are saying, Sansa…I already figured as much.” He was used to the push and pull between them. It was exhausting and he loved her. He loved her more than words. Despite what she did. She was his wife. He was bound to her.

“No, Theon…I am saying that I don’t deserve to want you anymore.” Her voice sounded small and miserable. Most of all—tired.

“Sansa…you only did what you did because you were grieving. You didn’t do it on purpose. I don’t blame you. For all we know my mind was fit to break into a seizure at that moment regardless of what you said or did. The protector is gone, I haven’t felt him since I awoke and neither has Reek. He cannot hurt you ever again. I promise. And I will always look at you this way. With love and desire. You are my wife, Sweet Girl.” He inched closer with every word until his breath was warm on her cheek and she shivered up her spine. “Whatever you have done I will forgive you for. You lived five years with a burden that would have killed a lesser being. You raised our son, alone. And took care of me all the while. Reek would forgive you, too. When he sees this memory, he will forgive you.” Theon brushed her neck, down her chest, over the swell of her breasts that were full with milk, and gripped the fabric tight in his hold. Drew it up her thighs with careful precision and used his thumb to brush over her pearl through her smallclothes. She jolted.

“Theon—” Her thighs squeezed tight around his hand and she moaned.

“I married you because you are the fieriest woman that I have ever known. And because you didn’t care that I was broken and cracked into a thousand little pieces you wanted to pick them all up and have them for your own. I couldn’t say no to you. I don’t remember why I even wanted to.” He kissed just behind her ear and blew warm air on the space and she gave another moan.

“Theon…I can’t…Theon…” Tears spilled down her cheeks and he licked the salty liquid up in tender respite. His thumb worked her over all the while and her smallclothes grew damp almost immediately with her juices.

“Shhh…Let me take care of **you** this time. You used to touch me when I was unconscious. I felt the pleasure as it burst and exploded in my veins. At the time I didn’t realize what the pleasure was in the thick of so much pain, but I do now. How long has it been since you touched yourself? Since you took care of yourself?”

“I don’t…I haven’t…” Words were lost to her and he made quick work of the ties on her flimsy dress. Using his spare hand to strip her of the material.

“And what became of the woman that refused to wear smallclothes because they itched and scratched? Hm? I suppose it has been a while since you touched…hasn’t it? No longer leaving yourself accessible like you did before.” Her whines muffled into his neck as she turned her face to hide it away redness flushed on her cheeks.

His blood sang with need for her. His skin was on fire with every pulse in her veins and thrum of her heartbeat. He missed the touch of his wife’s hands and longed for the thrill of her nudity upon his, without the bulge of their son nestled in-between them.

He tugged his hand free of her thighs hold and tugged off her smallclothes. She was fully bare to him now and with clumsy, shaking fingers he felt her stripping off his shirt and tearing down his breeches in her own haste to feel him.

He connected their lips in a summit of passionate need. His hand slid back down to circle around the swollen nub between her thighs and his thumb swirled just there. “Let me fix you, Sansa. I want to fix you, this time…” Her answer was unintelligible in the moans that fell from her petals. Her limbs wiggled about and her thighs opened up for him to seek out her apex in bodily response.

Retracting his fingers, he sucked them clean of juices and pressed the hard bulge of his stub to her gash in full. He muffled her cries of pleasure by closing his mouth over her own. And began to rut slow and sensual against her. The universe shifted around them as her nails found his back and dug in tight. His lips detached from her own only to find the white, thin lines of her scars. He kissed them in loving caresses. Pushed aside her winding locks of hair and further poured his heart into hers as her legs wound around his waist.

Neither of them was long for this pleasure. They spilled over the edge together in loud cries and purrs of contentment. Already, winded from his long teaching session down in the courtyard, Theon’s muscles ached and tugged in reminder of his general weakness. He had still not built himself up to be so agile and it showed in his lack of stamina as he came down from this high.

He breathed in heavy gulps of air and trembled on top of his lover from a mixture of weakness and resounding pleasure that pumped through his nerves and veins.

Some time later when their breathing had returned to normal, she saw fit to release her hold on his waist with her trembling thighs. Her legs dropped down to splay on the bedclothes and he rolled onto his side, only to draw her side tight against his chest. She curled into him and nudged his chin with her nose teasingly.

“Do you doubt how far my love extends for you still, My Love?” Theon’s voice was hoarse and cracked from talking so much today. It was clear his voice box was unused to so much exertion.

“Mmmm…No I do not doubt you…My Love.” She returned the sentiment and together they faded into tired, marital bliss. Napping together as they used to—without boundaries.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Forgive me for the very very belated update! I literally have been working on other things (like my novels) and haven't gotten around to updating in a while! SO I made this chapter extra long for all of you readers! More to come soon!_


	39. Part 39; To Instill Curiosity

**_Part 39; To Instill Curiosity_ **

****

* * *

 

> _There’s nothing_
> 
> _that I wouldn’t do_
> 
> _to make you feel my love._

* * *

 

**_Sansa_ **

She never expected acceptance such as that which she found in her husband’s eyes. She had spent so much time wondering what he might choose if he knew everything, truthfully—and she couldn’t believe he chose **her**.

Warm in his arms, Sansa heard the creak of their chamber door on its hinges. Then the click of it closing anew. Small feet pattered near to their bed and a few seconds of rustling later, Sansa made a low noise as Little Robb pounced on top of her. The warm heat of his flesh scorched her skin as he moved to slide between them.

Theon shifted and his eyes opened. A low grumbling laugh sounded from his throat. And Sansa wound her arm around Robb’s middle only to draw him in tight to her breast.

“You are both glowing, did you bed her, Papa?” Sansa’s cheeks flooded with color and shock surged straight up her spine.

Theon’s eyes widened with shock and he looked to Sansa for support.

“Gods! Our son knows about bedding?” She was still flaming red as he poised such a question at her.

“Apparently he has been sneaking around and spying on unsuspecting couples in the act.” Sansa tickled Little Robb and earned a few giggles and squirms in response.

Sansa was beginning to think he stole a little bit of Arya’s forwardness when he came into the world, not only Robb’s spirit. Arya used to speak her mind despite the consequences which was far more scandalous for a girl.

“Only Uncle Jon and Aunt Alysia!” He countered.

“Well you best not spy on us! I mean it, son.” Theon gave a half-hearted smile.

And Little Robb seemed puzzled by his words. “Why not? It doesn’t hurt anyone…”

Sansa stifled a giggle into Robb’s hair. He was absolutely hopeless.

“A little help?” Theon inclined his head towards her and she laughed.

“Don’t look at me, he doesn’t listen to me, either.”

Robb squirmed in her arms and kept tilting his head back and forth to survey both of their expressions in turn.

“I listen, Mum. But I don’t see the harm in just watching. It is a secret, just like I cannot tell Uncle Jon and Aunt Alysia that I still feed from your breast.” Sansa held her breath.

Theon quirked a brow, “So that is how you kept your milk flowing all these years?”

“He likes to feed from me…” She defended and Robb nodded in agreement.

Theon laughed and rubbed his temple. “Gods above, Sansa. He is uncontrollable, however did you manage?”

“He is just like Arya and Robb, if they both embodied one single person.” She teased back. “And I managed quite well I think.”

Robb launched into Theon’s arms and landed on his waist with a huff. “Look at you? So strong.” Theon kissed Robb’s forehead.

“And quite content with keeping lots and lots of secrets.” Robb puffed out his chest and beamed.

Theon shook his head and Sansa joined in. Her heart swelled watching them like that. She never thought she would witness the day where Theon would get to hold their son and attempt to teach him life lessons. She would never take these moments for granted, again.

 

 

* * *

 

 

**_Reek_ **

 

Reek found contentment in his heart when he awoke to the feel of Sansa and Robb alongside him. Memories from his counterpart grazed the forefront of his mind and made his smile widen. Sansa was okay again. They both were.

Hunger rumbled in his stomach and instinctively he sought out Sansa’s teat to fulfill it. The alternative was to head down to the kitchens and eat with painful chews—Sansa’s milk was the kinder choice. And he preferred it.

Mother’s milk tasted sweet and succulent against his dry, cracked lips. The aroma from Sansa’s skin invaded his senses enthralling him with honeysweet dewy scents. And he faded into it naturally.

He found his mind was more mystical than the deepest of the ocean depths. Unable to retain his memories easily, it took time for him to dig and find what he sought.

Theon’s memories.

Dozy fingers wound into the strands of his sandy-brown hair. Milk squirted upon his tongue and was quickly swallowed with fervor.

Suddenly, floods of memories came to him. Laughter in the courtyard—the firm tug of a bow’s string and promises from Theon’s lips. Love. Touches. So many little whispers transposed between them. And the truth at hand came to view.

Sansa knew the darkest of their truths. All of the personalities knew about the child scorched with fire—hung from the castle walls of Winterfell. All were aware that their only (known) offspring was lost forever—but none of them spoke of it.

The shame wound deep and the sick truth tore at his innards with every suck and pull of sweet milk. He never wanted Sansa to know of that treachery. Even the memory rooted deep into the recesses of his mind—ate at him.

Robb slept positioned nearby. His snores gentle in the morning light that shone briefly through the curtains. Completely unaware of the darkness that followed Reek around like a ghastly shadow. It never left him. Not really.

Done suckling he sat up on his haunches and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. With gentle eyes he looked upon Sansa’s frame. Listened as she drew in shaky breaths of air. The rise and fall soothed him. Calmed the rancor in his mind.

“Reek…” Sansa hummed. “Come lay down…” Perhaps he had awoken her after all. Now that he peeked closer, he could see the thinly veiled smile curl at the corners of her mouth. Hear the uneven sound of her breathing. And he saw her shift mildly on the bedsheets.

“You spoke to Theon.” It was the first words he thought to speak once he settled back into her arms just as she asked.

With a nod, she beamed. “Is he correct in believing you forgive me, Reek?”

“I could never be mad at you for that, Sansa.” And he found those words to ring true. Any length of time without her would always prove too much to bear.

“I cannot bear to think of what was taken from you, Reek.” Sansa’s breath tickled his lips and he shivered.

“I know what was taken from us, Sansa. I know what Theon did. I’ve always known.” He had to belay the truth—he needed her to understand.

“You…You did?” Her voice was shocked.

“It haunts all of us. It haunted even the protector.” Reek could no longer feel the protective personality inside of his mind. He hadn’t felt that presence in so long.

“I wanted to hurt him, Reek. I feel awful for it—but I did.”

Reek slid his hand over her cheek, caressing her skin with love and care. “I understand, you never have to worry that I will leave you, Sansa.” His skin felt prickly and aged well past his years. He always felt so broken when he looked into Sansa’s eyes and recognized fear reflected back at him.

His entire life was built around fear. His existence came to be, due to Theon’s own fear. Every crack in Theon’s psyche was built into Reek’s consciousness. And now—now he knew how it felt to love Sansa and long to be whole for her.

He would always long to be whole— **for her**.

He presented her with a chaste kiss and fought back the urge to kiss away her tears and climb on top of her. He had to remember that they had a son now. And their son slept alongside of them most of the time. He was once a barrier—wielded by Sansa to prevent their sexual encounters. Now—now Robb was used to being close.

He expected to be.

“Are you going to bed Mama?” The sound of Robb’s voice jolted Reek and rippled his skin with shock. Another swift memory from the night previous came to him.

“Robb! No of course not!” Reek stumbled over his words, cheeks pinking and he straightened his back nervously sitting up against the headboard.

He could hardly deny the tingle in his lower-half that alerted him to how potent his desire for Sansa currently happened to be. Mornings when he awoke and nights just before sleep were his most need-filled moments.

Sansa burst into laughter hardly willing to further continue to scold Robb for his curious nature. It did little good to chastise him for being curious at his age. Especially considering it appeared as though he had taken it upon himself to begin spying on intimate moments whenever he could.

“Why not?” Robb sat up then rubbed at his eyes wiping the sleep from them with a yawn.

Sansa sat up and tugged Robb onto her lap. “What did we talk about last night, Robb?” She kissed his nose and smiled at him. “Leave your Papa alone, hm?”

“Yes, Mum.” He squirmed on her lap, unsteadily.

Reek’s face was still on fire and his eyes were still trained down at the bedcovers.

“I still don’t see any harm in just watching though.” Robb muttered under his breath and Reek noticed Sansa stifling a smile. She forced a pointedly stern look to cross her face.

“You are far too young to watch. That is why.” She kissed his forehead and Robb made a face.

“I just wondered how it was different from Uncle Jon and Aunt Alysia…” Reek’s face turned a darker shade of red and he fisted the furs his heart rising in his chest.

Even around their son he found himself self-conscious about his body. His own nudity would always bring him shame, now. He knew Little Robb meant no harm, but it made it no less humiliating to picture in his mind the differences between his own body and other men. The way he bedded his wife and the way everyone else bedded theirs.

His jaw clenched tight and he bit back tears.

“Robb, you cannot keep going on about things of this nature. It is not proper. I mean it. Tell me you understand?” Sansa’s voice tightened noticeably; all good humor vanished from her eyes.

Robb’s gaze guilty shied from Sansa’s then over to Reek who refused to meet his stare.

“Robb?” Sansa’s tone was icy.

Robb squirmed. “I understand.” He huffed and wiped at his eyes; this time noticeably upset himself.

“You are very lucky that you are a boy that is fully intact. You do not have to fret about bedding a woman when the time comes. It is unkind to ask questions about how one that is not so lucky as you, beds his wife. I know that I have taught you better than that. We do not poke fun or ask unkind or embarrassing questions about anyone. Ever.” Sansa was serious. Her eyes were unyielding and Reek had never seen her clearer and more concise about anything before. Every time she interacted with Robb, she was light and gentle with him. Coaxing and willing to answer his questions without fail. This was the first time she attempted to set boundaries that Reek could recall.

Tears spilled down Robb’s cheeks. He too, was unused to receiving a stern scolding from her.

“I didn’t mean to upset him, Mum…Honest. I only wondered. I’m sorry…Don’t be mad at me, Mum…” He descended into sobs and sniffles. Sansa sighed her stern exterior softening as her son broke down on her lap.

Reek felt guilt for being the reason she scolded Robb.

“You do not have to scold him. He only shocked me is all. I am fine. He is my son. He can ask me whatever he wants.” Reek never believed that he would have a son. A child that relied on him and idolized him. That looked to him for answers in this life. No one had ever needed Reek for anything other than pain and suffering. He was unused to the innocence of a child’s mind. Robb was innocent—and meant no harm.

Once Reek mulled the obvious over his mind then he could overcome the temporary grip of pain that overwhelmed him when such questions came to fruition.

Robb’s eyes perked up through the swarm of tears and Reek extended his arms. “Come here.” Robb scurried onto his lap and clung to him for dear life. His tiny knees poked into Reek’s lower abdomen and small frame shook with the force of his sniffles.

Sansa looked on in apparent bewilderment at Reek’s ability to recover from his momentary distress.

When Robb managed to quiet his tears, Reek drew him back to look him in the eyes. It was uncanny how much like Sansa’s brother their son looked. It chilled him right to the bone to see those achingly familiar eyes reflected back at him.

“I am not always as strong as Theon is, Robb. Sometimes I take a while to process the things that are said. I learned a long time ago that my mind is very easy to break, but I am always going to try to answer your questions, alright? Even if they aren’t exactly conventional.” Reek chanced a glance at his now bewildered wife prior to returning his gaze to meet Robb’s. “I will do my best.” He promised.

Reek wanted to be better for his son. He wanted to be better for himself as well. He couldn’t detach anymore. Nor could he simply revert the way he used to. Having Robb made him stronger in ways that were difficult to describe. But that were felt on a potent level.

“I cannot be inside of my wife, that is true. But I can still be with her. It isn’t normal and I suppose to some it isn’t right, but we still find pleasure with one another. One day you will understand that there is more than one way to find intimacy with a woman.” Even as he spoke the words, he felt his heart racing and skin pulsing. He was embarrassed. And his cheeks were filled with heat but he managed to force the words out.

He was determined to help Robb understand so that his curiosity may finally be sated.

Robb fidgeted and clearly had more to say but seemed hesitant to ask. He remained silent.

“Do you have more questions for me?” Reek prepared himself mentally for what Robb might inquire about next.

“I want to know why it is forbidden to speak about. What is so shameful about being with a woman if you love her? Why would anyone think it is wrong, Papa?” Reek’s mind reeled as he struggled to grasp the concept of Robb’s thoughts. How did a child draw conclusions such as these? He decided that their son was not normal. He clearly harbored more than one of Ramsay’s traits. Ramsay’s scent and keen mind.

He took a breath and answered. “Nothing is shameful about being with a woman you love, Robb. But you know how people are here, don’t you?” Robb cocked his head to the side. “They tend to stick their nose where it doesn’t belong. And if someone does something that is deemed abnormal then to them it is wrong. There will always be those that do not like how I bed Sansa. Even though we love each other. Even though it isn’t wrong. People believe that it is and so it is made so in polite conversation.” Reek tried to explain. Yearned to make Robb understand.

“Okay, Papa.” His little palms rested on Reek’s pecks. One of his thumbs brushed curiously over the scar where his right nipple once existed.

“I am sorry the man who created me did these things to you, Papa. I am sorry you cannot bed Mama the way you want to.” Reek’s heart nearly stopped right there in his chest.

He found himself speechless his mouth hung open dumbly and his face flushed anew.

Sansa too, stiffened. Her face paled.

“Robb. You are not to blame for Ramsay. Not for anything that he did to me or to your Mum. You never have to apologize for him. We would never blame you. Either of us…” Reek found his voice after several moments of blank gaping.

Robb shifted. “I am to blame, Papa. I am the son of a monster that hurt you and Mum. I would never have been born if Papa did not hurt Mum to make me. And he is the reason you cannot have babies of your own…I wish you could have babies of your own…” Reek’s heart shattered into pieces. What he once believed himself came out of Robb’s lips and made him recognize how foolish he had been once to believe that Robb could ever become like Ramsay simply be existing.

“Robb…” Reek breathed out his name and Sansa reached out to brush the length of Robb’s spine. He shivered and leaned into her touch for comfort.

“You are my son, Robb. The man who fathered you will never matter. Not to me. You are my baby. I do not need another son to be happy. I have you. You make me happy.” He leaned in and kissed Robb softly on his cheeks, lips, nose—everywhere. “You mean everything to me. To Theon, too. You make me better, Robb. I am stronger because of you.”

Robb nodded but it was apparent his guilt and self-hatred would never go away entirely. It would always be hidden beneath the surface. Reek knew that pain well. He lived with that pain everyday that he existed. He could spot it in another. Especially a child.

“What if I take you out to the courtyard? Theon can come out and teach you how to shoot a bow and arrow.” Reek whispered and nudged him lightly with his nose.

Robb was unmoved. His eyes hollow and distant.

“I don’t want you to leave, Papa…I want you to stay…” Nearly inaudible huffs came from Robb’s chest as he offered insistent words.

Reek’s eyebrows furrowed. “What do you mean?”

“You leave for so long and you don’t come back…”

“I…I don’t mean to, Robb. Sometimes I cannot control when it happens. But I promise you, that even when Theon is here rather than me, I will remember.”

“You will?” Robb appeared skeptical.

“Of course. We share memories, you know.” He was thankful for the lighter tone the conversation took on.

“You remember everything he did yesterday?” Robb further inquired.

“I do. And he can remember everything that I say and do, too.”

Robb pressed his cheek against Reek’s chest and small arms circled around his middle.

“I will go down to the kitchens and eat breakfast first.” Robb mused. “Then you can have privacy with Mum.” Robb retracted from his lap and was off the bed before Reek could so much as protest. Yanking on the various articles of his discarded clothing prior to scurrying from their chambers. All of the heavy emotions from moments previous were once more packed away and hidden under that bright smile of his.

Sansa moved to straddle Reek and linked their fingers together. “I didn’t expect you to handle that as well as you did.” Ocean-eyes found his sea-green admiration shinning from within.

“He is our son, Sansa. I know he would never seek to cause me harm.” Reek lifted her hand and planted a kiss to the back.

“Still, I saw the look on your face when he started asking about the way we couple.”

“He took me off guard. He is one of the most inquisitive children I have ever met. And I met quite a few over the years.”

“It is not healthy for him to be questioning us about bedding…he is so young yet…I do not want him to get any ideas…”

“Theon was curious at his age. Though Iron-Born boys tend to be born with the thought to rape and reeve in their blood.” Images of the sea came to mind and he whisked them away.

A troubled expression crossed her face. “What if he gets it from Ramsay? Do you think…could he be hiding the same dark thoughts that Ramsay had…? Would we even know?”

Reek’s heart pattered and rose. “He is petrified to turn out like his Father. It is not possible for Robb to turn out like him. After all, Ramsay never once worried about hurting anyone else. He never apologized for anything that he did. Never.”

“I know…but still. I will always worry for him.”

“You are his mother. That is what mother’s do.” Reek sighed in discontentment and stole another kiss. “He will be just fine. Give him time, Sansa. Time is all he needs.”

She planted a chaste kiss to his neck and nudged him with her nose. “I hope you are right. I could not bear it if anything ever happened to him and I could have prevented it…”

“If he is destined to be like Ramsay—then nothing we say or do will change that. But he has a heart of gold. He is nothing like Ramsay. Do not worry for him. Not anymore, Sansa.”

She nodded her head—but fell silent.


	40. Part 40; To Split the Past Apart.

**_Part 40; To Split the Past Apart._ **

****

* * *

 

> _It’s funny how seeing you_
> 
> _gives me both joy and sadness_
> 
> _at the same time._

****

* * *

 

**_Theon_ **

Cold wind whipped through the chamber and sent chills straight up Theon’s spine. When he thought about tomorrow morning—standing out in the courtyard alongside Sansa and Little Robb to receive Yara and her Iron-born soldiers—his mind shut down. And fear crept in.

What if Yara no longer accepted him as her brother? After all the things he had done?

If he peaked into the back of his mind—deep into Reek’s memories—he could clearly see the vision of Yara in an attempt to secure his rescue, pleading for him to run with her. Sometimes, he wished he had gone.

 _‘Why did I have to fuck it all up?’_ He thought to himself. His heart scourged the cage of his chest and streaks of tears stained his cheeks.

Sansa and Robb slept unaware that he would acquire no sleep tonight. There was too much guilt that had been built up over all these years about Yara.

He missed the sea—his people. But he never admitted how much he loved Yara. He had found memories of her as a child. Happy moments of childhood bliss that were now muddled around the edges in his mind. What if she never forgave him?

Sickness bubbled in his stomach and after an unspecified amount of time worrying—he decided to get up. He crossed the room and settled near the dying embers of the fireplace. Listened to the crackle and pulse as he strained to pull the memories forward.

He wanted to remember times that were better. Moments in his history where he did not feel the burn of self-hatred most of the days of his life. When his body was unmarked with scars from torture and brutality—when his heart did not beat with fear and uncertainty—and when his eyes would meet with the fiery little red-haired Stark girl that could climb beneath his skin and burrow a home there.

Those times—were the best times.

And everything else—was simply after.

Sometimes, he could not even look in a mirror without Ramsay in the back of his mind whispering: _‘What is your name, Reek?_ ’

He wanted to scream at that voice; scream that he was never Reek. He was always Theon.

But Reek existed now. Reek was real.

Reek had been Ramsay’s and now was made Sansa’s by design.

Her kindness had drawn him out of the shadows and pulled him into the light of day where the sun could shine again. Where he could draw back a bow’s string and release the wood of an arrow into a target.

He practiced every day. He wanted to be as he was before—his missing fingers hindered his usage of his hands. Whilst the stretched and torn muscles in his shoulders (from his time spent on a saltire) hindered the movement of his shoulders. He would never be so agile as he was before, but the Maester reassured him that he would shoot a deer again—if he strengthened his arms.

In silence, Theon touched his remaining fingers to his thumb. Felt the twinge of movement in his forearm and watched the muscles work to accomplish the feat. He exercised that way, multiple times through a day. Sometimes, without conscious knowledge he was even doing so. He would feel Sansa’s hand entwine with his and she would work a gentle thumb into the kinks in his joints and be reminded that he was fidgeting again when she offered him a calming smile.

The same smile she would give him tomorrow as he stood alongside her and awaited Yara’s entrance.

The mere thought made his stomach sink with dread. Skin crawl and ache with the few precious memories he had of his elder sister.

What must she think of him now?

Her letters were short and scratched in a hurry. Her tone never inclined one way or the other. She seemed indifferent, sometimes even icy. Stiff. There were no terms of endearment. No writings that told she still loved him. It was such a small thing—but he took notice. He always disregarded the letters in his mind as rushed and thoughtless—it was easier.

Easier than believing she might actually hate him. Despise him for what he did. No matter how long he stared at these chamber walls he could not convince himself otherwise. Why would she still harbor affection for him? Sure, she came when Sansa called—because she thought he would never awaken again. Those circumstances were far different than a mere visit whilst he was conscious and aware of her presence.

She had always been prickly—even as a child—and she showed her affection sparingly to those who she deemed worthy. He no longer felt worthy. How could he make up for the men she lost in her failed rescue?

He stayed on the settee, until the morning streams of light shone into their chambers and birds tweeted sweet melodies in the spring breeze. Until soft footfalls came across the stone and a small form settled alongside him on the settee. He felt the warm press of his son as he pushed his face up into the nook of his arm.

Instinctively, Theon draped his arm around Robb’s shoulder.

“Morning Daddy…” Robb rubbed his eyes and yawned. “Aunt Yara is coming today.” All little Robb had wanted to talk about for the past week was Yara’s impending visit. He was practically bouncing off the castle walls with excitement. Every servant, every knight—every single person in the castle—had been chattered on to about Yara, by Robb.

“Yeah she is.” Theon acknowledged and kissed the top of Robb’s head. Robb nuzzled in closer and sighed as he tucked his feet underneath his bottom.

“Shouldn’t you be happier, Daddy? Don’t you miss your sister?” Theon’s stomach turned over and ached deep in the pit.

“Course I do. There are just…things in my past. Things I have done…” His voice trailed off. He lost himself again to the memories—until Robb piped up again.

“Like what kind of things?”

He blinked and swallowed the lump that rose and lodged in the base of his throat. “Nothing that you need to be concerned with…” He blinked back tears and couldn’t look at his son.

“She’s your big sister…won’t she forgive you for them?” Sometimes, Theon forgot just how innocent Robb was.

“Iron-Born are not built that way, Robb. They do not forgive easily, nor do they forget.” Robb seemed to consider what Theon told him for a moment. His brow furrowed.

“Are you that way, Daddy? You are Iron-Born, too.”

Theon stiffened slightly. He tried to forgive those that could be forgiven. He would love and forgive Sansa for any wrong she committed against him. But Theon no longer considered himself Iron-Born. For him—everything was different now.

“I came into this world as Iron-Born, but I will die a Northerner. I was raised on these lands, under Sansa’s Father. I learned everything from him, from the time I was ten.” Theon could see Ned just in his mind’s eye. A smile brimming at the corners of his mouth. “So, no. I am not like the Iron-Born. I suppose I lost that.” The truth of things pained him. He didn’t like to think about what he lost when he was raised on these grounds. Only what he gained, in Sansa. In Ned who was kind and fair to him, despite everything his family had done.

“Oh.” Robb seemed troubled by his choice in words and (being more alert now) sat up, only to scoot to the edge of the settee. “Have you always loved Mum?”

Theon was taken aback by the question and his face flamed with heat. But he answered with the truth. “Always. I have always loved Sansa.” In quiet reflection his eyes sought the red-haired lump underneath the covers. Curled inward and still fast asleep clear across the room.

“As long as you have Mum then even if Aunt Yara cannot forgive you, you still have someone. You still have me. I love you, Daddy.” Robb peered up at him with rounded blue-optics and Theon’s heart melted.

“I know I do.” He managed to croak out. “I love you too Robb.”

 

* * *

 

 

Hours passed and the castle was bustling with life. Servants rushed in every direction lighting every candle on the elegant wooden-carved chandeliers. Hanging decorative streams weaved from grasses and plants. Preparing the night’s feast and cleaning the chambers Yara and her people would be housed in.

Jon appeared genuinely aggravated with the strain of preparing to receive such a vast amount of people at once. Alysia took over midway when she thought Jon might actually work himself into a frenzy over the minute tedious details.

Theon removed and polished his armor several times over unwilling to appear unkempt when he first laid eyes on his sister again. He was polishing it for the fifth time when he felt arms encircle his waist.

“Robb told me I would find you here.” Sansa’s breath tickled his ear and he twitched, reflexively.

“Did he?” The bones in his hand began to ache as he scrubbed harder against the metal. Part of him believed if he only made it glisten a little bit more it would change the way of things. And Yara might respect him more.

“Theon…”

He scrubbed harder until he thought his hand might break.

“Stop, Sweetheart please…” Her hand rested on his and he finally allowed it to still. His breath ragged and cramps rushed up his forearm into his shoulder.

“What is this about? Hm? Your armor is clean. It was probably clean the second time you scrubbed it.” She pressed mindful kisses to his neck and over his now aching shoulder blade.

He was silent. And his stomach gouged with hurt.

Sansa was undeterred. She pulled his breastplate from his trembling hands and carefully planted it on the floor before straddling his waist. The wood of the chair creaked under their weight. Her hands cupped his cheeks and forced their eyes to meet.

“You can tell me anything. You know that.” Her thumbs brushed at his stubbled cheeks. “So, tell me what has made you revert this way…” He remembered cleaning vigorously when he was under Ramsay’s control. Remembered the fear in Reek’s heart every time his Master was close. It sent nervous ticks and cleaning habits into a manic frenzy.

“What if Yara cannot forgive me? What if she hates me…?” His voice wracked with tremors and he felt like a scared child. It sounded childish when he said it out loud. Which was precisely **why** , he kept the thoughts to himself.

Sansa didn’t smile, only frowned. Leaned in and kissed him softly.

He returned the kiss and felt his pulse lower. Heart simmering to little beats in his chest.

“I told you that Yara came to visit you during the time while you were comatose…” Her gentle tone resonated in her ocean eyes. “I never told you, however, that Yara was scared when she saw you. She doesn’t think I saw, but she pleaded with you to wake up. Yara still loves you, Theon. When she saw you like that…I have never seen her waver ever once the way she did when she stepped in this room.” Theon’s skin rippled with emotion.

“She was…?” Disbelief echoed in his words and Sansa merely nodded in confirmation.

“She was.” She reached down and collected the breastplate off the stone floor. “So why don’t you put this on, and come down to the courtyard with me. She should be here any minute.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

By the time he was fully attired and stood in a straight line in order to receive Yara and her Iron-Born crew, his stomach was in tight confined knots and sweat had built on his forehead in little beads.

Sansa’s hand brushed his in a gesture of understanding which loosened his muscles at least minutely.

When the gates drew open his back felt rigid as he straightened his shoulders. It was a reflex to stand a little taller. Sea-green eyes fell to the black stallion she rode in on. Her men followed closely behind but Theon’s eyes only sought hers. Even as she climbed down from her stead and strolled toward the line of reception waiting to greet her—Theon didn’t blink—didn’t even move.

Not until she surprised him by grasping his arm and drawing him in for a hug. Shock wrought through his system and he stood stiffly for several seconds as he processed what had just transpired before he returned the hug.

He was accustomed to gentle touches from Sansa and Robb. No one else hugged him or really came within ten feet of him unless they had to.

He could smell sweat and fire ash on her skin. Feel the warmth that seeped out from underneath her armor. There was dirt and exhaustion written into her features. Scattered over her skin and he could see it in the cracks of her armor.

When she drew back, he could feel every eye in the courtyard on him. Even Jon’s.

He met Yara’s gaze levelly the way he was trained as a child.

“It is good to see you up and around, Brother. Last I saw you; you were frail and thin.” Her tone was low, yet even. As if she did not desire to be heard by those that stood nearby. It was uncomely for a guest to address anyone other than the Lord of the castle foremost, prior to deferring to others in the yard, but under the circumstances—no one dare interrupted.

He bowed his head in a stiff manner. “I am well now, my Lady.”

Her eyebrow quirked, “Lady? Am I not your sister still, Little Brother?” Amusement lit in her eye and Theon blushed.

“Of course, you are.”

She made a noise in her throat and Robb stepped forward a wide smile on his face.

“Aunt Yara!” Apparently, he couldn’t contain his excitement any longer. He had been squirming where he stood ever since she stepped through the gate. “I can’t believe you are finally here!” He launched into her arms and she laughed in the back of her throat.

“I am, little one.” She mused in agreement and finally managed to unlatch his arms from around her middle.

Little Robb put a massive smile on his face and stepped back into line as he noticed the pointed stare Jon was giving him.

Yara finally headed to the front of the procession and greeted Jon (as was customary) and greeted down the line. Alysia, Alren, Brant, Little Clara—then Sansa—and finally back to Theon himself.

“I have someone who wants to meet you, Brother.” Yara’s tone was curbed with a sly smile. Theon inclined his head and furrowed his brows. Nervously flicking his eyes to Sansa—whom shrugged.

“Someone wants to meet me…?” He repeated the words back to her in a questioning manner. Why would anyone care to meet him?

He was finally loose and no longer stiff—he could no longer recall why he was so afraid to greet her in the first place.

“Colton?” Yara’s head turned back and for the first time—Theon noticed the man stood a few yards back from Yara sandy-brown curls dusted his shoulders and a wicked spark shone in emerald eyes nearly overshadowed by his pronounced jawline and confident stance. Theon took a step back out of instinct and Sansa too went completely still alongside him.

Neither of them breathed through their jolt of shock.

Colton stepped forward his shoulders squared only to bow his head, first as Sansa—then at Theon. “My Lord, I have waited a long time to make your acquaintance. My name is Colton Pyke. My mother was Lilliyan Lanser and I believe you to be my father.”

Theon’s heart was rampant in his chest—his eyes bulged and he looked from Yara to Colton in one swift jilt of his head—and everything else faded from view. All he could see—was Colton.

And he was petrified. He felt the push of release in the back of his mind—and let it happen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AN: Keep your heads! I will be posting more soon!


	41. Part 41; To Breathe New Life.

**_Part 41; To Breathe New Life._ **

* * *

  

> _Love is space and time_
> 
> _measured with the heart._

****

* * *

 

**_Sansa_ **

 

It took only a single glance out of the corner of her eye and she would have recognized those green eyes **anywhere**. Looking at Colton was like peeking into Theon’s youthful reflection.

They could have been twins. And the appearance was so uncanny it took her a long moment to double take and breathe—in order to remind herself that she was not staring down Theon’s twin—but his son.

 **Son**.

He had a living, breathing child. Something she could never give to him.

Her one wish in all the world was to give him a child.

She felt a burn in the back of her throat as she blinked back tears. The weight of this truth caused her deep pain. And suddenly—she knew what her mother had felt when she looked upon Jon. Knowing another woman gave her husband a child—that was not her—caused an insurmountable pain to swiftly gouge into her.

Seeing him, here—like this—was a jolting shock that resounded to every single limb and bone in her body.

She felt Little Robb cling to her hand and gawk up with wide eyes—she heard the breathing of her husband hitch in his throat and she felt in her chest that something in Theon broke— **again**.

His eyes glazed over and she could tell he was no longer there. It was a second—and then he blinked.

Colton was stood watching him, as was Yara, both expectantly awaiting his response.

Sudden anger pierced inside Sansa—caused by the shock from something of this magnitude being thrust upon them both.

“Are you mad, Yara? You cannot surprise, Theon! Not with something like this!” She hissed out, shooting daggers with her eyes toward Colton.

She wasn’t angry with Colton per-say—but she was wounded by his appearance. Deeply.

“I believed he would be pleased with the news. How was I to fucking know it would do…well what in the seven hells **is** wrong with him?” Theon was stood very still and Sansa knew that Reek was now with them.

“He cannot always help when he changes personalities, I told you that, Yara!” Sansa brushed against his cheeks and he blinked.

“Sansa…” Reek’s voice was gentle as he peered over her shoulder and recognized Yara and recognition lit his eyes as he saw Colton just to her left. “I came out too early…” Sansa remembered that Theon had planned to let Reek come forward a little later in the day. He wanted Reek to have an opportunity to spend time with Yara as well.

“Yes, Theon had a bit of a shock.” Sansa put all of her focus into keeping Reek from spiraling. In truth she would do anything in order to momentarily divert her attention away from the problem that presented itself in front of them.

Yara watched their exchange in complete silence a hard stare on her face. Before she piped up.

“Gods. He is not a child, Sansa. He does not need you to coddle him like one! He has the blood of an Iron-Born running through his veins. He can handle himself.”

Jon made a noise in his throat a light smile spreading across his face, despite the situation at hand and Sansa gave him a death glare of warning for him to stay out of it.

He seemed to take a hint, because he began to instruct those standing around the courtyard in stunned silence about their business. And even guided his wife and children inside the castle. Leaving only the five of them behind.

“How would you know? He may have been Iron-Born, but Reek never was. Theon and Reek are different. Nothing about them is the same.” Sansa sighed, lowered her hands and turned to (finally), face the young man that so completely resembled her husband.

She had known Theon for so long that she had memorized every inch of him. The crooked smile he used to harbor in his youth had always drawn her in. It was the reason she let him chase her even though she could never hope to outrun him. Why she fell so deeply into the cocoon of love and need for this man. To see that smile again…it hurt deeper than she could ever express. She hadn’t seen that smile since the day she left for King’s Landing. Which felt like a lifetime ago.

She never believed she would again.

“Your last name…You are a bastard of the Iron Islands? How is that…? Theon was a child when he came here…” She reached up to stroke the curve of Colton’s jaw. She could hardly believe that he was real—flesh, bone—and when she touched him it cemented this reality into her mind.

Colton offered an uncertain smile that just barely curved at the sides of his mouth. His own hand lifted soft and warm to barely graze Sansa’s and she shivered. “My mother told me the story once, before she passed away.”

Yara gave a reassuring nod in his direction when his eyes met hers. Sansa reacted like a bolt of lightening and jolted her hand from his cheek in apprehension. Suddenly painfully aware of everyone’s eyes on her.

“Lilliyan…” Reek’s voice rang out, startling everyone. His eyebrows drew tight together and Sansa’s eyes turned toward him her heart beginning to patter and race.

“You remember her?” Colton’s smile grew wider and more certain.

“Some of the memories…from before…the Iron-Islands have always been clearer than my more recent memories. At least…since I woke.” Sansa recognized the nervous dart of his eyes toward her as he mentioned it. And her heart ached for him.

Yara’s eyes softened and she smiled at her brother. “Of course, you do. You have our home in your bones.”

Reek offered her a shy smile and a nod. He pondered something for a moment before he spoke up again. “Lilliyan was revered among the other Iron-Born. She was always such a beautiful girl, her hair auburn in the rays of light. I remember the other boys used to tease that she was impossible to charm. It was a right of passage to bed a girl by your tenth name day.” His eyes gave another nervous dart in her direction and Sansa saw him blush. His hands began to tremble and he twitched mildly from the stress.

Colton’s eyes grew heavy with emotion and Sansa could tell he was holding something back—but couldn’t decipher what, exactly, it might be.

“I knew Lilliyan since I can remember. I ran with most of the village children. Yara, too.” He appeared to look to Yara for reassurance and she nodded.

“I remember Lilliyan.” Yara admitted. “She was always pretty the way men deemed a Lady should be—even though Lilliyan harbored no title.” Sansa sensed jealousy in Yara’s tone.

“I kissed Lilliyan, once. When we were five.” His eyes grew distant as though he were seeing the memory clearly in his mind’s eye. “She was soft and warm for an Iron-Born. Always smiling with kind eyes. I cared for her. Promised her things…” Sansa could feel in her heart that Reek was troubled by the memories shown to him by the fractured pieces of his mind—but he powered through.

“You loved her?” Sansa piped in and Reek stiffened clearly torn between the truth and not wishing to betray the love he had for her.

Sansa reached out and grasped his hand—entwining their fingers in solidarity. “I could never be mad at you for your past, Reek. Nor Theon for his. Go on.” She mused and kissed his knuckles. She ignored the little flutter of jealousy that stuck inside of her belly.

She wondered if he **always** remembered Lilliyan, or if those memories were burrowed deep along with all of the other memories he would rather forget (or that Ramsay had stolen from him) over time.

Encouraged by her show of support his back straightened a bit and his nervous glances in her direction ceased altogether as confidence began to shine through in him.

“I let the other boys believe that I took from her the way Iron-born are meant to—but the truth is I found her in my bedchambers on my tenth name day. She wanted to be the first to share my bed.  We cared for each other by then—spent so much time in our own bubble. I meant everything I promised her. I meant to make her my Lady. To marry her before the Drowned God.” He closed his eyes and sighed in his throat.

“We were together in secret until the day I was taken from the Iron Islands. But I swear I never knew she carried my babe. I never was even able to say farewell to her.”

Colton’s hand was tight on the helm of his sword, tethered to his hip. His hand pale, white. “She left the village when you were taken. She never wanted anyone to know she carried the bastard babe of a Greyjoy.” Colton’s voice broke.

“I remember she vanished. Her parents searched for her. They never found her, I thought she might have died—we all believed she had died.” Yara intersected a forcibly unreadable tone in her voice.

Colton’s eyes never left Reek. “She witnessed what became of your brothers—of you. It broke her to lose you. She never carried that light you speak of—not that I recall. And she never bedded another man…not of her own volition.”

Sansa knitted her brow together and took in a deep, shaking breath. “A man forced himself on her. Before she perished. Put a babe inside of her and she died—birthing a son for the rutting savage. The child was born ill—did not last the week. I buried him and sought you out at the castle—but I found only Aunt Yara.  It is my fault for your trauma. Not Yara’s. I pleaded with her to bring me to you. You are all I have left in the world. You and Aunt Yara…”

Sansa felt her heart flutter and shift. The jealousy felt deep down felt bitter and made her feel ashamed of her jealous impulse.

“She spoke of you often…my Mother. Believed that you might return to her one day. Believed you might come for us.” Colton’s voice shook.

Reek was rigid, tears in his eyes his trembling worsened. “I never…I thought she would forget me…That she had forgotten me…”

Sansa never knew about Lilliyan. Theon never mentioned a woman he left behind. Not once in all the years she knew him. All their secrets were laid bare—he knew everything there was to know about her. About her life. How could Theon never tell her about Lilliyan? That single question made the sickness inside of her only strengthen—despite what she told him.

“She never did. She spoke of you all the time. She would listen in our little village for scraps of news on your whereabouts…she heard when you returned home—after you had already returned to Winterfell. She thought you perished…I thought you perished…Until I heard about you on the lips of another. Word that you had wed a daughter of Winterfell…” Colton’s eyes finally met Sansa’s and her heart raced.

“Mum never knew…I did not have the heart to tell her…” He swallowed thick in his throat and tears glistened in his eyes.

Reek reached out to him and drew him in for a hug. Sansa had never seen Reek touch a stranger before. Not if he could help it—touch hurt him. Terrified him most of the time. Sansa let the tears fall down her cheeks as the impulse to hug Colton raced through her own bones.

It was her mothering instinct. It had to be. She wanted to care for this stranger’s child. This man who lost his mother. Who never knew his father…

Despite how much it hurt her to even look upon his face. How much it dug into her chest to witness an uncanny reincarnation of Theon’s visage. Theon’s sandy-brown hair held flecks of gray scattered throughout. His eyes were aged years beyond his true age but he was still handsome—to her.

Little Robb had stood watching all of this with wide, reflective eyes. Sansa took the moment to coil an arm around her son and hold him near. She could see tears gathering on his cheeks—he was crying. Before she could even speak to Robb he was scurrying from the courtyard. Drawing from her arms as though he was punched.

“I was fucked up for a long time…I never thought…If I knew…” Reek whispered. Sansa couldn’t believe how well Reek was handling this situation. Had he finally grown used to being forced out when the worst of events came to pass? She remembered how it broke him last time. How his mind never recovered from the trauma of the brothel rape.

When Colton pulled away Reek’s trembling hands lowered back to his sides. His skin was pale and eyes tired. “You are welcome at my hearth. Always. I would never turn you away.” Reek’s voice cracked with emotion.

Sansa could feel Colton’s eyes on her. Felt the burn underneath her skin. “We will both take care of you now.” Sansa piped up. Colton offered a sad smile and she looked back to Reek. This would take time. Time for her to grow used to—but she felt affection for this man. He was a piece of Reek—of Theon. She could feel nothing less.

“I should go after Robb…” Her voice was dry and shook. She wanted to displace herself—for a little while. **Just** a little while.

“You should.” Reek agreed and Yara nodded in agreement.

Free from the tethers to this strained first meeting—Sansa hurried from the courtyard and didn’t turn back.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

It took time but she found him. Huddled in one of the spare guest chambers. Nestled in a corner with his head between his knees. Sobs wracking his tiny shoulders.

“Robb…” Sansa approached him only to kneel before him on the floor.

He jolted and their eyes met. Liquid wet his cheeks; redness pooled in his cheeks.

“Daddy isn’t going to want me now…” He sniffled and coughed.

Sansa’s eyes widened. “What are you talking about? Of course, Theon wants you. He will always want you. You’re his son…You’re our son.”

Robb’s head shook viciously and he rubbed his eyes and nose. “Why would he? He has a real son now…I am just the son of a man that hurt, Daddy…”

Bile rose in Sansa’s throat and she stared in blatant shock. Of all the reactions she could have imagined—this was the very last. Robb was everything to her. Everything. She loved him more than words could express. And she knew Theon did too. Reek. Theon—they both loved Robb.

“No, Sweetheart…Hey. Neither of us blame you. Not for him. I promise. We meant what we said that night. Reek meant it…This changes nothing…”

It wasn’t true of course. Everything had changed. And would remain—changed.

“I just want to be alone, Mum…Leave me alone…” Robb burrowed his face into his knees and sobbed anew.

She scooted closer and drew him into her arms. “You’re my little boy. You are the only person in this world that was connected to my body. That I carried inside of me. I’ve loved you since I first held you. Since I kissed you that first time and promised to protect you. You’re mine. And Theon was there too…He promised to love you, forever—too. Colton will be your brother…but he won’t matter more, I promise…No one could matter more than you. Not to me…”

He didn’t speak—didn’t respond only sobbed into her shoulder. Clutched at her dress and sobbed until his tears ran dry—until his voice was hoarse and skin overheated. And she held him.

Until everything else ceased to exist in the world.


	42. Part 42; To Reflect and Grow.

**_Part 42; To Reflect and Grow._ **

 

* * *

 

> _There are some things_
> 
> _you can only learn_
> 
> _in a storm._

 

* * *

 

**_Reek_ **

 

As Reek heard the words flow from Colton’s lips it felt as though oceans of memories poured back into his heart and soul. The door in his mind unlocked and clarity came forth to enlighten him. His time on the Iron Islands belonged to a life that he barely remembered. And he usually tried to forget—because the truth of his past was too painful to remember in full.

But he did, **now** —remember.

He could **remember** the gentle touch of another woman against his skin. Lilliyan had been four years older than he was. He always remembered her being there—when he was little. When he tried to remember. He had not **tried** in so long.

It was as though pieces of his psyche had locked Lilliyan away elsewhere—somewhere safe and completely out of reach. Locked every kiss, touch, memory—safely behind a doorway in his mind that was bolted with locks and chains.

He was never meant to open that door and now—it was blown wide open.

Everything shifted and those nights returned to him. Promises.

So **many** promises.

And then he was stolen away—ripped from his homeland—and clear across Westeros. Far away from Lilliyan and their promises of love and marriage. She was far from view. And Sansa had been a bright, ever-beaming spot of light that made his time in Winterfell worthwhile.

He couldn’t remember when those memories were taken from him. But he knew he still carried them when he stole Sansa’s first kiss. When every muscle in his body screamed to be inside of her that day. Sprawled in the tall grass. Need and lust, had been guilt and shame.

He remembered a flicker of thought about Lilliyan. About Sansa’s age. And about her brother, Robb. What would he think? And what would **Lilliyan** have thought of him?

Unable to keep his word to her. Unable to wed her the way he promised when he lost his virginity to her. He invented the memory that his first time was with the farmer’s wife. She was his second woman— **never** his first.

Lilliyan was his first.

He felt Sansa’s eyes on him as he accepted Colton. The need to know his son was overwhelming in the pit of his stomach. He had a **son**.

A living, breathing— **son**.

He was not angry with Theon for pushing him forward. For drawing him into the center of revelations that cracked open their world—that chained and latched door. Nothing else mattered—only Colton.

With Sansa gone, Yara too made her excuses. It was just them now—alone—in the courtyard.

Reek swallowed entirely uncertain where to begin. How could he even remotely know his son now?

“Your armor…You reside in my home? Have you pledged your sword to Yara?” He was full grown. A man. Not a boy. Nor a child, like Robb.

“I have pledged my sword to you, Father. Yara offered me a place in her guard until she could deliver me here. I want to reside with you.”

Reek’s heart jolted in his chest. “I never thought I would have a son…Not after…” A lump formed in his throat and a reflexive twitch jerked through his body.

His son was whole—and uncannily like looking in a mirror. Which petrified Reek for a moment. Ramsay made it so that he could never be a proper man. Reek never knew what it was like to be a proper human being. All he had were memories. False memories—there were not his own.

“Aunt Yara told me what Ramsay did to you…All he took away…” Reek flinched when Colton grazed his shoulder in a gesture meant to comfort but only made his stomach tear at itself more. Deeper and deeper until he thought he might be sick.

“I could never have been a proper husband to Lilliyan…” Reek’s voice turned hollow.

“She died loving you. That would never have mattered to her…” Colton paused and peered toward the front entrance of the castle. “You did marry…Are you not a proper husband to Lady Sansa?”

Reek searched but found no malicious intent in his son’s eyes. Only genuine interest. “I try to be. But…Things are different with Sansa…Ramsay did things…things to her, too…”

“She has a son. Aunt Yara mentioned he is Ramsay’s.”

Reek shivered and the muscle in his jaw twitched. “He is mine. He will never be **Ramsay’s** son in anything other than creation.”

Colton nodded in understanding. “I have heard many unkind things about you. But I would never believe them. I would never judge you for things that are out of your control.”

Reek’s shoulders visibly relaxed as the tension left his muscles. Though he could not help but wonder what specifically Colton had heard. What despicable rumors—what **truths**?

“All of the worst of the memories I carry, happened to **me**. Theon is the one that fell in love with Lilliyan…All of the rumors that spread around Winterfell…Around Westeros, are the tragedies that befell **me**. I share his memories, and he shares mine. But I suppose that your true father is Theon. Not me. So, I suppose what I am saying is that…Ramsay made what he wanted out of me. He took away everything that Theon was—and I am what remained of Theon when he broke. So, you may believe whatever you desire of me. I am no hero…nor am I a man. The things Ramsay did…” He blinked away the moisture that gathered in his eyes. 

“You are one of Theon’s personalities. You **are** Theon. Aunt Yara told me about them. I want to know my Father…I want to know **you**.” He inched closer and Reek closed his eyes.

“The truth is, Ramsay stripped away so much of me. My life…my memories…by the time I emerged from the hell he created, there was nothing left of my memories of Lilliyan. I locked them away—you opened them back up. I let Theon lead…he makes most of the decisions. I only come out when he is stressed, or we make an agreement. There is no point in coming to know me.” Reek admitted.

“I want to anyway.” Colton insisted that stubborn look came into his eye. One he had seen so many times when he looked in the mirror. Stubbornness was in the Iron-Born blood.

It existed in every facet of who they were.

“Then I will not hinder you from knowing me. If you are to be staying for a while, then we must show you around. Introduce you to the castle.” He offered a smile and guided his son toward the castle doors and out of the courtyard.

 

* * *

 

 

**_Theon_ **

 

He felt a million miles away. Watching from blackness—listening—absorbing. Memories came so clear and concise. And it felt right to come back. He **had** to return.

He wanted to speak to his son—to Yara. And Sansa. He needed to right a wrong.

He owed it to Sansa and Colton.

Reek let him return. There was no fight—no war between them. Only ease as the light returned and shadows ebbed away.

The high table had always been a daunting place for Theon. Even sat alongside his wife—he felt out of place. Yara was to his right and Sansa was to his left. Jon and Alysia were sat in the center—where the reigning Lord always resided with his lady.

The feast was well underway and Theon blinked a few moments to ease the memories back into his mind. No one noticed his transition. Not even Sansa. She appeared troubled—her sapphire-eyes preoccupied and her fork picked at the ham on her plate. Pushing a string of fat around uneasily.

Colton was sat alongside Sansa. Which may have been causing her unease—Theon couldn’t tell.

He reached out and gripped the back of her hand. Brushed the skin with his thumb and she lowered her fork to her plate. Her eyes softening.

“I am sorry I left so abruptly. I should have stayed.” A smile cracked at the corners of his lips. Sympathy and understanding wrote into his eyes.

“Theon…” Sansa realized in a whisper. Her own eyes brimming with un-spilled tears. Voices were bustling through the hall and the level of noise was able to drown out the level of discomfort felt by a few people in the room. Music was in full swing and it reminded Theon of the feasts held before everything fell to pieces. The pieces had finally been pieced back together.

“Forgive me?”

Her eyes clouded and finally, her tears fell. Her hand drew from his and she stood—hurrying from the hall. Colton’s attention was grabbed by her sudden movement and he looked to Theon and then toward the fading form of Sansa as she fled.

“I have to go after her…” Theon offered as explanation and Colton nodded in agreement as Theon stood to hurry from the hall.

Sansa was midway down the vacant hallway, lit only by wall torches when he finally caught up to her and tugged her around to face him.

“Sansa…I will always be sorry…” He could **guess** what was upsetting her but he was uncertain which issue at hand brought this on. The appearance of a child he fathered? Or her own feelings regarding the entire situation?

“Theon…You have nothing to be sorry for. I cannot blame you for this…for any of it. You had a life before you came to Winterfell. You had love…before you came here. I don’t…I could **never** blame you for that…I just…I don’t understand why you kept it all **secret** …You know **everything** about me. You have kissed every part of my body. Told me **every** intimate thing about yourself. Why **not** this? Why not about Lilliyan?” It poured out of her like a fountain and sobs shook her shoulders.

“I didn’t remember Lilliyan…everything that happened to me before was like another life. Another world…It never occurred to me that those memories even existed.” And it was true. All of it.

Sansa’s face scrunched up with tears and she sobbed into her hands. “She gave you a baby, Theon…she gave you a **son** …I can never give you that…I can never have that with you…. No matter how I might **wish** for it.”

His face fell and his skin crawled. It was **his** fault—his fault for being captured by Ramsay. For being cut to pieces. He despised himself. He hated that he could never remedy what was lost to him. To **them**.

“I have a son. I have Robb. **You** gave me, Robb.” He breathed into her hair and she fell into his arms. Her chin nestled against his chest as more sobs wracked through her frame.

“He thinks you won’t love him now…He thinks you won’t **want** him…”

Theon’s heart stabbed with ache. “That’s not true. I **love** him. He’s **ours** …” Theon kissed the top of her head. Brushed his lips firm over the skin of her forehead and wound his hand into her strands of hair.

“Colton looks like you… **just** like you…Robb **never** will…I want a baby that looks like you…why can’t we have that? Why?” She was in hysterics which only drove him to tears. His arms still wound around her frame and his mind wandered.

“What would you have me do? I would give you anything…I would give you a child if I could. I would—”

Her lips sought his. Wet, needful kisses were stolen between them and he all but moaned into her mouth when her hand traveled down to grip him through his breeches. When the kiss broke apart his lips were wet and his need caused his skin to crawl with the proof of it. He always hated this sensation. This **need**. It reminded him of a time when he worked the way all other men did. When he was whole. He twanged with self-hatred.

“He has **your** eyes…your jaw…your smile. I never thought I would **ever** see that smile…you never smile that way anymore…” Sobs and sniffles broke through the air between every word but he knew what she meant.

He **used** to love his life. He used to **love** to smile—and joke. He used to truly love **nothing** and no one…because of Lilliyan—and then Sansa. Because he **couldn’t** —so he hid behind a smile and unkind words. He **remembered** that smile.

“S-Sansa…”

Her hands were suddenly everywhere. Teasing and kneading all over his frame. Through his clothes until he was on fire. Until he burned with the need from it. And he was ashamed to admit there would be no restraint once she made her intentions clear.

They were suddenly akin to the people they were prior to his comatose state. Needful and greedy. Impulsive and most of all— **careless**.

However, they were too far from their chambers for him to make it there—not when she taunted and teased him in this manner. Not when hot kisses bit his flesh and burned his mind. And her dainty hand clutched his swollen nub until he pulsed against her palm. Even through layers of cloth he could feel her touch—the **heat** —her graze.

Even still—he tried to fight it. The way she made him feel—how out of control he was becoming.

“We can’t…Sansa…Gods…” He couldn’t even remember **when** he pushed her against the wall—but he must have. Some point between the sloppy, heated kisses and her hand clutching his reactive need.

“I don’t care who sees…let them…see…” She kissed his earlobe and bit with her teeth in light succession. And he grunted in response—and remembered the hateful glint in Jon’s eye from those five years ago—when they last were caught in a compromising position.

He knew **why** she wanted this—why she needed him here— **now** —and he let it happen. Because he **loved** her. Unequivocally. He would always love her. He could feel the wounds opened in her soul—and he shared them. They were eternally linked by those wounds. He could never offer her what she truly desired—instead, he gave her what he could.

Already, he shook with violent tremors and need pooled low in his pelvis. He surged forward and connected their lips. Drew her legs up and around his waist and found her warm heat underneath her gown. He recognized her lack of underthings and made a noise in his throat in recognition. He felt her subtle smile spread against his lips.

And he lost control.

Her hands helped the inevitable conclusion along by unlacing the stays on his breeches, freeing him to the open air. And he held her pinned against the wall as he gave way to rutting against her. Friction surged from his groin up his spine and sensitized his entire body in the process.

He fought for dominance with her lips and ignored the hatred for himself that sank skin deep. Sansa was held back by him—and she always would be. With the thought wiped clean from his mind—his hand met the wall to steady himself and his moans vibrated in his throat.

He wanted to come apart—and he felt **her** want too. Deeply burrowed along with her aggravations and scars. He felt the need to apologize—it came at him as he felt his release fast approach.

“I’m sorry, Sansa.” He would say it a hundred times—but it would never resolve what plagued her.

And her nails dug deep into his shoulder-blades until he felt blood draw as she pierced skin. And a choked sob fell, which he quickly swallowed with more kisses.

They failed to hear—both of them had—but when his eyes peeked open, he could see the flushed cheeks and sea-green eyes piercing him in the darkness. Colton had caught them—found them—and Theon froze a moment. Bewilderment came first—and then he remembered they were in the hall— **anyone** could have seen.

And mortification swam through his veins. Sansa’s nails unbound from his shoulders and lowered weakly as her eyes registered Colton’s through her tears. She made no move to be embarrassed, only returned his stare with quiet resolve.

They had been caught so many times. What did it matter this time?

He could almost see it in her eyes as he looked from his wife to his son.

Colton had the good grace to lower his eyes and **appear** embarrassed. Though Theon had seen the glimmer in his eye just before he realized he was caught watching them. He had been spying on their moment for longer than he would have them believe. Theon knew that look well—he used to spy when he was younger—curious.

He was ashamed—he knew better than to lose control in the hallway. Bedding Sansa here was no better than doing so in his old hound pen. There was so much shame involved.

“Enjoy the show?” It was Sansa who spoke, a dryness in her voice. Her eyes were unreadable which only caused Colton to further attempt to humble himself.

“I…I wasn’t—”

“What…? Spying?” Sansa gracefully wiggled away from the wall and Theon came to himself and lowered her to her feet.

He could feel Colton’s eyes on him as he hurried to close his breeches in order to hide away his shame.

Sansa smoothed the edges of her dress until the wrinkled fabric flattened and straightened in a flowing arc to the ground. Colton cheeks were still aflame and he suddenly appeared unable to decipher where he should look, decidedly planting his eyes downward.

“You were though. And why should you not? You are curious, aren’t you? **Everyone** is.” Sansa wiped her eyes with both hands. Streaks of tears had dried on her face and in the dim light of the wall torches she was visibly splotchy in color. Theon was silent. So was Colton.

“They want to see how my husband **fucks** me without a cock. Did you like the show? It must be nice to be **perfect** down there. To be able to fuck girls **properly**.” Theon’s back went rigid and his eyes widened. Colton too appeared flabbergasted and couldn’t find words to respond.

But Sansa wasn’t finished yet—and Theon realized that the revelations of today had finally been a straw too far for Sansa to handle. One person could only take so much weight before they inevitably bent and broke under the pressure—Theon knew that feeling; he would **always** know what that felt like.

“I swear I didn’t—”

“Why even bother denying it? You saw us leave and you followed so you could watch. No one else is lurking out in the shadows, **just** you.” Theon saw her eyes soften a few tears roll down her cheeks. She blinked in an attempt to will them away but it did little good to prevent them. She wiped her cheeks again and Theon heard her sniffle. “And you came here…to Winterfell…our home… **my** home…just to make everything hurt worse…” Her eyes fell and Theon could hear her breath shake.

And her voice softened to just a whisper. “With that smile…and hair…his eyes…” Sansa choked on a sob.

“I’m sorry…I never meant…I didn’t mean to hurt you—either of you…I would never have come had I known…I just...I’m sorry…” Colton was brought to tears by the broken display before him. And appeared uncertain of how to handle what his eyes were seeing.

Any traces of the smile on his face had been wiped clean. All Theon could make out were troubled lines across his forehead and a helpless expression in his eyes. Sansa leaned forward and drew Colton into her arms—shocking both Colton and Theon in turn. Colton let his arms hold her in soundless astonishment.

And Theon, too, only looked on in stunned silence, made no move to close in on them.

Colton’s fingers wound into Sansa’s hair out of instinct and his other made to rub her back, along her spine. “I will leave…I should have **known** better…” Colton’s voice shook with tearful tremors and he sought comfort in Sansa’s neckline as she sobbed into his chest.

Theon watched in bewilderment for a long time. Unable to move, petrified. He wanted to reach out and draw her into his own arms—but he didn’t want to break her any more than she already was. She appeared so fragile—why had he not noticed just how fragile she had become these past five years? She was no longer the strong, unbreakable woman that pieced **him** back together.

“S-Stay.” Sansa finally pulled herself together enough to draw her head up to look into Colton’s eyes. She must have seen confusion and sadness reflected back at her. Theon could hardly tell in the dim light.

“It’s not your fault…how can it be?” She wiped her own tears again in demure resolve. “You did not ask to be born. You lost your, Mother…I was terribly unkind…and unfair…and cruel.” Sansa seemed to gather her strength and steadied herself on her feet. “Forgive me…”

She turned from Colton without awaiting his answer. Theon finally reached out to grasp at her waist and she leaned against him. All playfulness had dulled in her. And he saw the drained exhaustion written all over her face.

Theon kissed the side of her head and grazed her shoulder and rubbed over her spine. He was most concerned with guiding her back to their chambers—that was the foremost thought in his mind.

“I will speak with you tomorrow, Colton.” Theon gave a nod toward his son whom was stood still apparently uncertain about what to say in response to Sansa. Gratefully, he nodded his head in turn and hurried back toward the feast.

They walked in silence until they were safely inside of their chambers and Sansa finally broke free of his grip, only to head toward her wardrobe, beginning to strip away her dress.

Theon wanted to repeat everything he said to her—wanted to tell her that he would do anything to make her smile—make her feel safe. But he knew those words were merely words—hardly a comfort to her. And he stood silent, instead.

Undressed, Sansa crossed the room and climbed under the furs that lined their bed. Her back turned to him. For a long moment he stood in silence—waiting—watching. Nothing in this moment felt natural—everything felt messy.

“Do you remember when you first arrived at Winterfell?” Her voice stunned him momentarily and he made to sit on the edge of the bed.

“I remember. You were only three then…” His memory served well enough.

She gave a nod. “I remember you were a stranger to me and I did not fully understand why you would come to live with us, but I used to follow you around. Robb, too.”

He could remember the little slip of a red-haired toddler running after them. Insisting she was old enough to keep up. “You did.” He agreed. One of his hands brushed down the back of her silky hair and he felt her shiver.

“I caught you crying once. In one of the rooms. I remember that I asked you why you were crying…I didn’t understand why you were not happy in Winterfell. You grew cross with me for catching you. I remember you pushed me and told me to mind my own business. That you hated me. I remember crying on Father’s lap. I remember him scolding you for hitting me.”

As she spoke the memory returned to his mind, taking shape and growing clearer in his mind’s eye. He remembered how awful he felt for hurting her. The stab of regret, because she was just a little girl. And he could have seriously wounded her. He also remembered all of the aggravation from being away from the home he had always known. Recalled missing his dead brothers—his sister—Lilliyan…

He blinked and shoved the thought from his mind.

“Why are you telling me this?”

Sansa finally turned to face him; her eyes unreadable.

“Because I understand, Theon. How **much** , Lilliyan meant to you. Even if you blocked her out—even if you couldn’t remember her. She meant something to you. Something deeper than you are willing to admit. And I do not blame you. I just want you to remember how much you cared for her. And for your home on the Iron islands. It is okay to let those memories back in, Theon.”

“They hurt you.” Theon whispered. His gut churned in illness. “And I never want to hurt you, Sansa.”

“I have been selfish with you, Theon. I have always been selfish when it comes to you. And I do not want to be that anymore.” Tears swam in her eyes; her hands came up to graze his cheeks and he sank into the gentle touch. “You loved someone else…there is no blame in that, Theon. You love the home you were born in, as do I.”

“Yes, I love the Iron Islands, but I love Winterfell, too. **This** is my home, too.” He did not have to think about it, the answer came naturally. His home was here—with her. Wherever Sansa was—that was home.

“I want you to remember your life, the way it is. Not the way you believe I want you to remember it.” She paused and took a breath. “I will get used to your son. To Colton. It will take me a bit of time, but I promise. I will get used to him. It is just…it will be hard.” She faltered. “You made such a handsome boy with her…” Theon’s heart swelled and beat.

“You made a handsome boy of your own, Sansa.” He attempted to remedy the situation the only way he knew how. “And I love our little boy.”

“I know.” She gave him a saddened look. “Of course, I know that.”

He gave a nod and a hint of a smile.

“Come lay down with me. I just want to be held.” She pleaded with her eyes and Theon made to strip off all of his clothes. Once bare, he returned to their bed and curled up alongside of her. He doubted he would ever grow used to the way it felt to lay skin to skin with her. It was an all-encompassing warmth that made him feel safe and secure. He sometimes wondered if she felt the same.

“Not everything can heal.” Her voice rose in octave and he peeled his eyes open. “I think I have finally worked that out. Some things will just **never** mend. No matter how we might wish they could.” Her jaw set in a complex line and his stomach flipped.

“No, everything cannot always heal. But I have, Sansa. Reek has.” He pondered her words for a moment. “I suppose it depends on what kind of healing you mean. But you mended me inside, Sansa. And that is the part that broke worst.”

“I watched you for so long, Theon. Laying in this bed—every day for five years. I hoped you would live, but was told you would likely never wake up, again. So, I became like a ghost. Watching those around me but being unable to interact with them—and feel moments like they felt them.” Slow patterns were drawn on the skin of his chest. Dipped and traced with one of her absently fidgeting fingers. “You came back and I thought it would heal me to see you again—to be with you again. But I still feel like that **ghost** , trapped between time passing and time standing still. Waiting with baited breath to either join you on the other side or for you to join me back here—on **this** side. I think I made myself numb for so long that I no longer know how to be the girl I **was** before. And I **want** to be. I want to be strong and perfect for **you**. I want to forget what it was like when I broke your protector’s personality. When I broke and destroyed **you** …But I cannot forget. And I suppose in the back of my mind I always knew you had another life before you came to Winterfell…but seeing that you had another life… A woman that loved you just as much as I do… I do not know how to feel about it.” She took a long deep breath. “But I do want to love **your** son the way you love **mine**. If you can love a child of Ramsay, I can love a child from your homeland. I do not want to be like my mother. The way she used to look at Jon…”

“You are not your mother.” Theon remembered the coldness of Lady Catelyn. He could still see her settled on a chair in her bedchambers running a thread through one of the children’s torn garments. He could still remember how she would chastise him when he played too roughly with her own son—Robb. She feared he would hurt him—because he was Iron-Born. Built rougher around the edges. He blinked away the memories. “I promise, Sansa. You will never be Lady Catelyn.”

Her mouth tugged into a thin smile. “I already am, though.”

“You have your father’s qualities, Sansa. You are kind, compassionate, gentle…” Brief glimpses of Lord Eddard broke through and flooded his mind. He had better memories of him. Ned took him hunting—just the two of them—when he first arrived. He remembered his refusal to leave his chambers once in Winterfell, and Ned had discovered his knack for hunting with a bow and arrow. He had one made special and took him out hunting as a way to make him feel more at home in Winterfell.

Sansa’s eyebrows drew together and she said nothing for a long while. “I love you, Theon.”

He brushed his nose against hers playfully. “I love you, Sansa.”

She went quiet after that and he was unable to tell what she was thinking, but she appeared a million miles away. So, he held her tight and nuzzled into the expanse of her hair and faded with her. He did not have to know what she was thinking to enjoy her company. He longed to provide her comfort after all they went through—and he hoped he was.

Before long sleep consumed him and his breathing leveled out with hers as dreams came to call.


	43. Part 43; To Connect Through Others.

**_Part 43; To Connect Through Others._ **

* * *

****

> _Nothing ever comes_
> 
> _ahead of its time,_
> 
> _and nothing ever happened_
> 
> _that did not need to happen._

* * *

 

 

**_Theon_ **

 

When dawn broke through the curtains and birds sang—Theon wrestled from underneath his thronged crown of dreams. Swaying in-between reality and another world. Sometime in the night Little Robb had wedged himself between them and was nuzzled safe and warm against his chest.

Even in his inept dreams he clung hold of Theon’s waist with his bone-thin arm. Theon sighed in contentment and kissed the top of his son’s head.

Robb was akin to light. Theon knew without a moment of thought about it, that he needed to find a way to spend time with Robb alone. Reassure him that he would never be replaced. No matter who came into his life—Robb would **always** be his son.

Carefully, so as not to awaken either of them, Theon shifted toward the edge of the mattress and climbed out of bed. Morning tugs from his bladder told him he needed to relieve himself—and he did so in the chamber pot beneath the bed. He long since ceased to care if his family saw him.

Sansa and Robb knew everything about him—he no longer felt shame in front of them for his shortcomings.

He dressed in record-time and headed down to the kitchens. Deciding to take a moment for himself to ponder exactly what his next move should rightly be. He did not desire to hurt Sansa anymore than he already had. And at the same time, he also yearned to do right by **both** of his sons. He owed it to Lilliyan to look after their son. To be there for him when he hadn’t been there for her.

The kitchens were lined with uneaten food from the feast that had yet to be discarded. It was laid in piles all over the counters and Theon could smell the traces of its scent in the air. One of the kitchen wenches caught his eye and immediately lowered them.

“We should give the remaining food to the peasants, should we not?” Theon proposed to her and she halted in her steps. As though stunned that he actually **addressed** her and then peered around at all the food (that was currently going to waste) as though she hadn’t noticed its existence before.

“I believe that is up to Lord Jon…” Her voice trembled and was quiet—like a mouse’s.

“I do not believe Lord Jon wishes the food to go to waste. I believe he would agree, don’t you?” He prompted causing the female to glance hastily around once more.

“Yes…Of course…” She set to work collecting dishes and setting about the task of preparing the food to be taken to the people. Meanwhile, Theon began to carve out his own breakfast with a knife. Sawing out a piece of bread from a loaf in the corner. Memories of bringing Ramsay his food came upon him suddenly and his hand reflexively shook—and he stilled.

“You have grown adept at frightening the staff I see. Haven’t you, Little Brother?” Yara’s amused voice sounded from behind him and he startled releasing the knife it clattered to the ground near his feet.

He spun around to face her and swallowed the lump that had risen in his throat. “I…Well I did not mean to…I just—”

“Do not go into a panic on me. The last thing either of us need is for Sansa to go postal on me when your mind breaks again.” She laughed and stole the piece of bread he had been slicing off the counter. Tearing off a piece she chewed it and smiled at him.

He attempted to smile back, though the bitter memory of Ramsay was still fresh in his mind.

“Sorry. You just startled me is all.” Theon admitted. He had not been aware she was in the vicinity—How long had she been watching him?

“You never used to be so easy to startle. We need to reignite the Iron in your blood.”

He ignored her comment for a moment. Instead, focused on retrieving the knife from the ground in order to slice himself off another piece of bread. He began to tear off little pieces and pop them in his mouth. It was easier to eat littler pieces that he did not have to chew. His teeth would ache otherwise.

“I already struggle to fit in here—I do not need to provide them with more of a reason to dislike me.” Theon decided after a moment. Most of them probably would never forget the actions he took in order to seize this castle. Even though no one present had witnessed his actions first hand they all knew what he had done, regardless. And were leery of him.

“So then don’t.” Her shoulders gave a loose shrug; brown eyes flashed mysteriously. “Fit in, that is. Fuck them. You know who you are, Theon. You can be that man again. If that is what **you** want.”

He thought about the man he was before. The man that betrayed the family he cared deeply in his heart for—the man who cowardly burned his own kin’s body unrecognizable to frighten those at Winterfell into submission. The more he thought about it—the less he wanted to return to the man he was previously.

“I hurt a lot of people, Yara. People that did not deserve it. And I never want to return to being that kind of man.” He broke off another piece of bread and chewed it cautiously.

“We’re Iron-Born brother. We take what we need. Fuck what anyone else thinks or feels about what we have done. You have lost sight of that.” She hesitated as though mulling over a thought. “But I suppose you have a family now. Obligations. Everything shifts when you have family.”

“It has…shifted.” He admitted, hastily. He felt suddenly uncomfortable discussing the decisions he has made—and the paths he has taken with her. After all, he still believed in his heart that Yara could potentially turn her back on him if he proved too different from the man, she believed he **should** still be.

“Sansa is good for you. She puts your mind right when you need her to.” Yara continued and Theon agreed with a nod. “I have something to tell you, Little Brother, though after yesterday I did not wish to spring another bit of information upon you.” Her eyes had turned serious and he furrowed his brow and prepared himself.

He doubted Reek would be so briskly forced out on a moment’s notice again—but there were never any guarantees.

“I am with child, Baby Brother.” With her revelation came shock—though not horror. He felt the jolt up his spine as his mind attempted to ferret this new information into place. And his eyes shifted and lingered (perhaps too long) on her lower abdomen. He could not tell if there was a bump protruding yet—she was always a bit pudgy even as a child.

His jaw would have dropped, had he not clenched the muscle tightly down. He wanted to feel joy at the potential of being an Uncle—but just as suddenly he wondered about Sansa. Would this upset her more?

“Fuck. Did you switch personalities again? I should not have told you, should I?” Theon made a split-second decision to surge forward and draw her into his arms. He wanted to be overjoyed. To be content and happy with this news. And he was so disoriented by it—he did not know what to say.

Yara returned his embrace though seemed momentarily unsure about her decision when he retracted. “I want to know things about you. You are my blood.” He found the words and swallowed the lump of thickness in his throat.

“Good. I thought for a moment I was going to have to get Sansa.” Theon’s gut churned anew.

“I do not know if Sansa can handle this news…right now…” He could still hear the tremor in Sansa’s voice as she recalled that they could never have children of their own. “She is fragile.” Theon was too ashamed to admit the reason why to Yara.

She appeared to surmise the reason for herself without need of an explanation. Though rare, Theon had witnessed brief glimpses of a softer side in Yara. She chose her moments sensibly. “What Ramsay did to you…I cannot begin to imagine **how** that must feel, Little Brother.” Her firm grip met with his shoulder and she gave a slight squeeze that offered trace amounts of comfort.

“But I will say this much. You are every bit a man, as any other.”

Theon could hear the rush of blood pumping through his ears. Tears welled in his eyes but he refused to have them fall. “I…I’m not…”

“ **Hear** me, Brother. Ramsay could never take away the man you were **born** to be. He did not change the loving, caring little boy **I** grew up with. You are **still** in there. Your physical parts are not what matters—they **never** were.” Her tone became firm and adamant. These words were the kindest he ever heard her speak.

“I hear you.” Cracks in his memory continued to inhibit him from experiencing the world as he used to. Though in his heart he knew who he was. But he was still at a loss on how to make Sansa feel better about their situation. And in a moment of genuine weakness, Theon decided he no longer wished to bear the burden alone—he yearned to speak to Yara about his troubles. “Sansa is devastated by the fact that we can never have babies of our own. I am, too…I just…I wish I could fix it. I know that I cannot—I wish I could.” His voice was small and hollow. Truth hurt deeper than silence.

Every word stabbed him like the blade of a knife. As though Ramsay were still **here** —still capable of searing him into pieces. Perhaps that was worst of all. Ramsay still had a firm latch on him. Even from beyond the grave. Sometimes, Theon swore he could hear Ramsay’s whispers. Feel his ghost trail alongside him. A constant reminder of the damning marks of evidence he left on his skin and in his mind.

Yara’s eyes deepened with emotion. He could see the flecks of sorrow in them. She did not have to say anything for him to see. To know she felt his wounds as if they were her own. In this one moment he connected with her. He did not think it was possible to cut through her tough exterior to bone—but he found the pull of her heart.

“Do you believe she can move past it, somehow?” Yara cast aside the stolen bit of bread, clearly robbed of her hunger.

“Sansa is strong. She has survived worse, I suppose. But with the appearance of Colton…” It was nearly as though the universe mocked them by sending him a bastard child with uncannily familiar characteristics. It felt like an experience handed out by Ramsay himself. Meant to maim and torture—but of course; it wasn’t.

Just a fluke of the universe. Perhaps of the seven Gods.

Was it the drowned God that sought to punish him? For his resistance against returning to his homeland? To the sea? He buried the thought.

“Give her time, Theon. Time is all you can grant her.”

He could sense it would be more complex than time given—but the burden was less now that he had shared it with his sister. And he suddenly found a question pop into his mind.

“Who fathered your baby?” He could honestly admit that it had slipped his mind that Yara did not have a husband to speak of. She was a sole Lady that oversaw their home. Although from the manner in which they first reunited he found that she had no qualms with sexual relations. Though that was not uncommon among his people; most Iron-Born didn’t.

Yara gave a lighter laugh. She appeared surprised by his sudden turn of the conversation back toward her. “It took you longer than I thought it might to ask me **that** , Little Brother.”

In the initial shock of learning about her pregnancy it became less of a question (for him anyway) of **where** the child came from than the shock of being told he was going to be an **uncle**.

“A man I deem most **loyal** and deserving to be my husband. He has fought at my side a great many years and I seek counsel from him when I need guidance. He is **not** a Lord.” Her eyes connected with his as though daring him to challenge her on that account, but Theon was the last possible person that could (or should) ever deem to pass judgement on the complexity of love, and he offered her no disapproval in his gaze. “Ser Elrin is the father.”

Theon scoured his memories and found a memorable young lad. Short and bulky with harrowing eyes and a temperament not unlike Yara’s own. And he suddenly understood how it was she came to love him. “The kitchen boy?” He recalled his placement in their household had always been in the kitchens. Sometimes he would come out to play with them in the courtyard.

“He is a knight, now.” Yara defended edgily.

Theon’s face widened into a smile. “I am not unhappy with your choice, Yara.” He was amused that she believed even for a second that he would disapprove of who she pledged to marry. “I am not like Father. Do you really believe I would judge you because you fell in love with a man that is not noble by birth?” Further amusement lit his eyes and he saw her eyebrows furrow.

“I do not know you well anymore, Theon. Not like I did, once.” He ached for the years that were lost to him when he was ripped from the Iron Islands. But his heart bled for the years he spent with Sansa. And he could not wish those years changed.

“You know me well enough.” He offered and leaned in to kiss her cheek. “And I am proud of you.”

She appeared overwhelmed for a moment. Emotion crossed her features and settled into her eyes. “If you go fucking soft on me, I will have to disown you, Little Brother.” She uttered half-heartedly.

“I believe it is you that has gone soft.” He leaned back against the counter and sighed, letting the ripples in his shoulders relax for the first time in days.

“Maybe so. I told you in part because I desire for you to know that I understand that shift, Little Brother. The shift in what is important. In values.”

Theon felt a knot bunch in his throat and knew in his heart that he had nothing to fear from Yara in terms of judgement. “You do?”

“I would break any law to protect Ser Elwin and my child. Any law, Theon.” Her eyes turned meaningful and he nodded.

“Then you understand why I cannot be the man Father expected me to be. I can never be that man again.” Theon admitted the truth to her. He would not jeopardize his life with Sansa in order to transfer back into the personality he outwardly projected prior to his capture by Ramsay. He was haunted by those memories—by his own actions—and always would remain so.

“I understand. Of course, I understand.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Sun glinted on the iron-bars of the nearby gate in the courtyard. Theon’s legs had mindlessly carried him outside for a stroll in the warm spring breeze. Summer would kick in soon enough and if the Gods were good the summer would be lengthy and prosperous.

Far kinder than the previous Winter filled with dread and horror.

Before he could understand precisely how it came to be, he stepped clear through the gate, where the old hound pens still stood. Hay and old earthy scents clamored through the air and engulfed his senses in entirety. He had memorized the scent in this small space.

He could feel Reek at the forefront of his mind, pressing from the blackness as the familiar scent comforted him. Reek’s sole place of comfort had been his hound pen. Theon’s legs instinctively carried him to the final stall where his body had spent so much time—Curled unnaturally into the corner and willing time to fade away.

He had no idea just how long he stood in quiet comfort just outside the small, dank cell.

It was the sound of a voice that startled him from his thoughts.

“What are you doing in here?” Colton had come to a halt right alongside of him; but it was not until he actually spoke that Theon realized he was even there in the first place.

“I…Oh…I come to think sometimes.” Sudden embarrassment flamed his cheeks as he recalled the compromising position his son caught him in the night before.

“Why do you not keep hounds in these pens?” He took note of the entirely empty area. Unnaturally vacant and eerily untouched. Hay had not even been cleared out since the mangy beasts had been slaughtered at Sansa’s behest.

“Ramsay used to keep hounds in these pens.” Theon swallowed the forming lump in his throat and pushed on. “He trained them to eat people. Hunt anyone that he commanded them to. I watched them tear flesh apart. Brutal, unkind creatures…” Theon hardly realized his hands (straight up to his shoulders) were trembling until Colton reached out to steady him.

Theon turned his tearful eyes to Colton. “I could never own another hound…not after…” He blinked. “I used to sleep here. Ramsay deemed this pen mine.” He gestured to the vacant space. Filled with hay and filth.

Colton’s eyes widened in horror and seemed to observe the filth-ridden cell with a new understanding. “You…lived in this…place?”

“For years.” Theon released a sigh. “Reek did. Everything that Ramsay did—he did to Reek.” Theon was most ashamed of his own cowardice. Allowing another piece of himself to endure that magnitude of hell would always remain one of his deepest regrets.

“I am sorry, Theon.” It was unnatural for Theon to hear his name from this man’s lips. A man meant to be his son. And he knew he must remedy it.

“You can call me ‘father’ if you wish. Or ‘dad’ whichever you prefer. You do not have to, but I will not stop you if you desire to.”

“And what should I call, Lady Sansa?” He inched around the subject as though fearful of bringing her up.

Theon thought on it a moment and returned with the realization he did not know what Sansa would respond best to. Would she care if his bastard son called her mother? She was his mother by marriage but not blood. “I suppose you shall have to ask her yourself.” He finally settled on letting Sansa decide.

Colton gave a curt nod and turned his eyes back to the cell. Surveying it with silent disbelief and Theon spoke up again. “Sansa does want you to stay here, you know. She meant what she said to you last night.”

Colton’s eyes snapped to Theon, clearly stunned that he had brought up the night before. Perhaps there had been an unspoken agreement between the three of them to never speak of it again—but Theon felt the need to do so, regardless.

“I was not spying on you…I really was not…I did not mean to…I mean—

Theon easily cut him off as he blabbered. “As Sansa said. You were curious. I cannot blame you for being so. We have been caught more than once in a compromising position.” Theon was embarrassed to admit as much, but felt it necessary to settle Colton’s shame regarding the entire ordeal.

“You…have…” Colton appeared numb, barely able to hold eye contact with him. Clearly nervous to speak about this subject.

“We have.”

“I followed you…but I had no idea you would be…on display like you were…I only meant to help…but then I saw…and I was curious…” He finally admitted it and Theon bobbed his head slightly in acknowledgement.

“Sansa is unwell right now. Your appearance triggered quite a deep wound in her. One I believe she was in denial about…perhaps able to forget about…until she saw you.” Theon was nearly certain that Sansa would never have had a meltdown on him over their nonexistent prospects of having children of their own, otherwise.

“I never thought that I might upset either of you by coming here. I only wanted to meet you. I knew that if you fell in love with another woman, she must have been special. I yearned to meet both of you. Being raised a bastard I am used to being treated with disdain wherever I might go. It just never occurred to me that I might cause harm by emerging without warning.”

“You haven’t. Not really. It is a blessing to know that you exist. To have you here…I never thought I would meet a child I fathered.” His eyes flickered with sadness. “Not one so…so like me…So like I used to be.” He shivered.

“I can still leave, Father. If Sansa cannot heal as long as she sees me…I can leave…Return to the Iron Islands with Aunt Yara and reside there with her. Are you certain that would not be best? I cannot bear to cause either of you pain.” Colton’s voice shook.

“Please…Don’t leave. I did not tell you any of this so that you would leave. I just want you to understand that Sansa probably would have broken eventually. It pains her to know we cannot bear children together.”

“What can I do to make it better…?” Colton asked. Sincerity in his eyes.

“Nothing. Nothing will make Sansa better I am afraid. Only time.”

And Theon desperately hoped—that was the truth.


End file.
